Marie said knowledgeably. "We thought it a bit premature to call an ambulance, as he was not vomiting or running a fever, but perhaps it's best to take him to his pediatrician."
"Of course, of course," Joanna agreed, taking the weeping boy in her arms and kissing his wet cheeks. "Tylerino," she said gently, "it will be all right, baby." She bid a hasty good-bye and thank-you and was out the door, her clogs clippety-clopping down the pebbled path.
The doctor's office was just a few blocks away, which was a good thing since in her haste Joanna had forgotten she did not have a vehicle. The nurse shepherded them to an examination room as soon as they arrived. Tyler was still crying, softly now, exhausted wheezes and sniffs. His shirt was drenched in sweat. Joanna held his hand tightly and hoped against hope that Marie was right. That this was a mere cold, a virus that had run awry. The doctor, who had cared for both of the girls in their youth, examined Tyler and gave his verdict. Of course, the girls had never been sick, not once in their entire lives. As immortals, they were immune to disease.
"Looks like a bad case of otitis. It's been going around," he said, as he put away the tongue depressor.
"What's that?" Joanna asked, hugging the boy close.
"Ear infection." He wrote a prescription on his pad for a regimen of antibiotics. "Make sure he takes all of them. Are you his legal guardian? I'll need a signature of consent for the medicine."
Joanna felt a rush of relief flood her. "No, I'm not but I'll get it to you as soon as possible. They should be back in town by tonight." Tyler finally stopped crying and was now sniffing and blinking. The nurse gave him a sticker, as well as a teaspoon of Children's Tylenol for the pain.
"Ice cream?" Joanna suggested, kissing him on the cheek.
The little boy nodded, too tired to speak. Joanna hugged him close. Tyler was going to be okay. She had never felt so grateful for mundane medicine.
Chapter twelve
Library Fines
When Ingrid arrived at work the next day, there was a message in her e-mail in-box. She stared at the computer screen. She had sent the photo of the design key only yesterday afternoon and already he had replied. She had expected it, but it still surprised her to hear from him so soon.
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Yes, she got his letters. She was almost tired of reading them, really, although she wondered how she would feel if they stopped coming. If a week went by and no letter arrived, would she be happier or sadder? She massaged her temples. She shouldn't have responded to him. Her mother and sister would never approve. But this wasn't about her or them or even him. There was something in those ornately decorated design keys. Something important, she could feel it, something that she had forgotten, and he was the only one who knew how to decipher it. The only one who could help her unlock the mystery of the code. She wrote him back.
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The reply was instantaneous.
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She sighed and did not send a response. It was time for her "witching hour," as Hudson called it. The line in front of the main desk was out the door. Some of the women had been there since before the library opened. They had been waiting patiently all morning, some perusing the shelves, some reading books, most content to merely stand and wait. The impressive results from Ingrid's work kept pouring in: the nightmares that stopped, the strange aches and pains that were cured, the rash of positive pregnancy tests.
Becky Bauman, who had recently reconciled with her husband, was one of her first clients. Becky took a seat across from Ingrid's desk.
"How can I help?" Ingrid asked.
"I don't know if this is the right place to ask or if you can help. I just . . . I feel like our place is haunted. I get the weirdest feeling at night, like there's someone there. Ross said I should come here even though he's never felt it. But I'm quite sure there's another