keep an eye on elves who go to stay in the human world,” the Guardian told him, “and last night we witnessed the nephew’s murder.”
“Murder?” echoed Petrus, horrified.
“Murder,” confirmed the Head of the Council. “It would seem he wanted to earn human money by selling the painting to an art dealer, and the dealer killed him then made off with the canvas and the notebook. The dealer’s name is Roberto Volpe and I’m on my way to Rome to meet him.”
“Meet a murderer?” asked Petrus, even more horrified.
“Astonishingly, Roberto Volpe is an amiable, peace-loving individual who, on top of it, just became a father this morning for the first time,” answered the Head of the Council.
“What an astonishing business,” said the guardian. “We need to take a closer look. Unfortunately, in the commotion over the murder, we failed to determine what Volpe might have done with the mysterious gray notebook. But the head of the garden didn’t send his nephew to Amsterdam just by chance, and I bet he knew what he was looking for. So now we have a double quest to pursue: the two children, and the gray notebook.”
“Do you think the two are connected?” asked Petrus.
“We think that everything is always connected,” answered the guardian. “Including a certain sweeper who was sent to the Council library upon the intuition of the Wild Grasses.”
Petrus was speechless.
“There are times we may be blind, but we are not morons,” said the Head of the Council. “Apparently you like traveling?”
His expression was sour.
“Still, I’m not sure what I’m offering you is exactly a privilege. This first murder of an elf in human territory augurs a sad beginning but, in these dark times, we must show discernment and audacity.”
He exchanged a glance with the guardian.
“Your unexpected discovery in the Canto of the Alliance has given us proof that the key of time is to be found in the link between the worlds. I don’t know why you told us this so long after you were singled out by the two highest authorities in our world, the Wild Grasses and the boatman from the South Marches, nor why, in the interval, fate went and stuck a broom in your hands, but it would seem you have been chosen for this adventure.”
He gave Petrus what seemed to be a rather stern look—or was it solemn?
“I have decided to appoint you special envoy of the mists to the human world,” he said, “in charge of the dual quest for the gray notebook and the two children of the Canto.”
He stood up, signaling that it was time to leave.
“Be here tomorrow at dawn,” said the Guardian of the Pavilion, “and bring what you need for several days’ travel, for every kind of weather and every season.”
Petrus left the Council headquarters in a state of such confusion that for the first time he went home to the wrong house, then seemed not to recognize his old unicorn elf. Special envoy from the Council of the Mists to the human world! he said to himself, over and over. He didn’t have the slightest idea what he would have to do, and the few instructions he’d received had left him mired in confusion. Elves only wear one outfit, which keeps them closely covered at all times, but they also wear capes when it rains, and warm coats in cold weather with added headgear that more or less resembles that of humans. Petrus spent the night trying to put together a bundle then, at daybreak, he stuffed a few belongings at random in the canvas bag he used for traveling. Finally, realizing to his horror that the sun was already quite high in the sky, he rushed to the upper chamber and, without knowing how he got there, found himself in the private study where he’d been the previous day. Before him stood the Head of the Council, observing him with thoughtful intensity. Next to him was the Guardian of the Pavilion, murmuring something Petrus couldn’t hear, as sounds vanished into a cottony confusion where he felt his intelligence disappearing as well.
The guardian placed a hand on his shoulder. There was an empty moment while the cotton was endlessly diluted in an icy void. Then they were in Nanzen. The pavilion was silent. Through its windows that had neither trim nor panes, Petrus could see the mist sculpting the trees in the valley. To the rear, at the top of the red bridge, a thick fog was whirling in place.
“How