When Pascale Auber is forced out of the airship of the evil Dr. Simpelstur, she finds herself rescued by a handsome Ruritanian diplomat, Theo von Hentzau. Pascale soon realizes that Theo is hiding something - something to do with the evil doctor, th...
At quarter to ten I let myself into Blaise's office. I let myself into the building via a back door that opened onto the quadrangle, then mounted a narrow side staircase to the hallway outside my brother's office. This methodology allowed me to avoid not only the department receptionist, but also the hordes of students who used the broad main staircase every hour on the hour.
I was obviously not going to announce my presence by knocking on Blaise's door. The door was locked, but this has never been a concern. The lock is as flimsy as the door; so old and ill-kept that a set of picks is unneeded - jiggling the door knob at just the right angle is usually sufficient.
The door swung open silently on its hinges, revealing a room full of stale air warm with the scent of sun-drenched dust. Light poured in through the tall windows, falling over the messy desk and the threadbare sofa. It was plainly clear that Blaise had not made an appearance that morning. My stomach lurched at the thought, but I pushed the feeling down and into the pit of my stomach - intense despair is rarely useful.
I shut the door behind me and walked over to Blaise's desk. The desk looked almost exactly as it had yesterday morning, when I had walked in on him teaching orbital mechanics to an opera diva. The most notable difference was that the orange which had served as the sun had been peeled, and apparently half-eaten - a few segments sat on the desktop, perched on a large piece of the peel.
The papers on the desk all seemed unchanged, one pile of unmarked mathematics assignments, and a neigbouring pile with marks and comments in the green ink I had given Blaise on our last birthday. I pulled open the side drawers, finding nothing more interesting than a stash of chocolates from our father's company. The middle, drawer, however, was more promising.
Aside from a fountain pen and the bottle of green ink, the centre drawer of the desk contained a sheet of lined paper, inscribed with a long note entirely in the same green ink. Sitting on the couch in the sun, I tried to read it. At first, I believed my brother's handwriting, difficult at the best of times to be particularly illegible. But then I realised Blaise had written his note in some sort of personal shorthand.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I grinned. Blaise always thought he was so clever, but I was the expert in codes, not him. I fumbled in my reticule for a pencil, and began my analysis. Whatever it was he didn't want me to know, I was determined to figure out!
