Shouldn't You Be in School?. Lemony Snicket

care who knew it. Caviar is the eggs of a fish, usually a sturgeon, black and shiny and served on small pieces of toast at parties to which you are not invited. As of that morning, at thirteen years of age, I’d never eaten any. I was not interested in eating any. I was reading Caviar: Salty Jewel of the Tasty Sea in the hopes of learning something, but as I finished a paragraph about the special tanks they use when the sturgeon are young, I wondered if I was wrong once more.

      The other thing I was reading was a secret. It had taken ten days to reach me, through the hard work of a number of people close to my heart but far away on the map. We’d learned together, in what most people would call a history class, that one good way to hide things is in plain sight. People often forget to look at something right in front of them, and as promised I had found something taped to the underside of the table where I always sat. It had been tricky to peel away the tape without anyone noticing, and once it was removed from its hiding place and smoothed out so it would be easier to read, I kept sliding it under the book on caviar whenever I feared I was being watched.

      It was silly to hide it. It was just a small newspaper article from the city. Nobody in Stain’d-by-the-Sea cared about it. Nobody but me.

      I hid it anyway, when the librarian approached. You cannot have a really terrific library without at least one terrific librarian, the way you cannot have a really terrific bedroom unless you can lock the door. Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s only librarian—or, as he called himself, sub-librarian—was terrific because he was kind and helpful without being irritating or bossy. This sort of person is an endangered species, almost extinct. Spending time in his library was like seeing a rare and strange beast that I might not ever see again, and sure enough, in a few short days this library, the only one in Stain’d-by-the-Sea, would be gone forever.

      “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Snicket,” the librarian said, in his very deep voice. His name was Dashiell Qwerty, a tidy and proper name that didn’t match his appearance. As usual, he was wearing a leather jacket decorated with small scraps of metal, a garment so dangerous-looking that Qwerty’s hair always seemed to be scurrying away from it. I don’t know what a matching name might have been. Wildhairy Oddjacket comes to mind.

      “That’s quite all right,” I said, and heard the newspaper rustle underneath my book. The article told the story of a young woman who had been arrested in the city for the crime of breaking and entering. Breaking and entering wasn’t the right term, I thought. My sister didn’t break in, not really. She had simply entered the Museum of Items when the museum was closed. It didn’t seem like a good reason to put someone in prison, but according to the article that was likely to happen.

      “I was just checking to see if you had found everything you need,” Qwerty said, either not noticing or pretending not to notice what I was hiding. “There are some new Italian dictionaries that I thought you might find interesting.”

      “Maybe another time,” I said. “Right now I have just the book I’m looking for. I’m glad to see that the shelves are in order again.”

      “Yes, it was a bother to reorganize everything,” Qwerty said, “but now the sprinkler and alarm system is finally installed. The controls are right over there in the northeast corner of the room, so I feel much less nervous about the threats that have been made.”

      “You’ve mentioned those threats before,” I said, “but you’ve never said anything more about them.”

      “Yes, I have,” Qwerty agreed, with a glance at the article in my lap, “and no, I haven’t.”

      He looked at me and I looked at him. We both wanted to know each other’s secrets, and we both wanted the other person to go first. This is something that happens quite a bit, which is why you so often see children and adults staring at one another in nervous silence. We might have stayed there for quite a long time, but a moth flew into Qwerty’s line of sight and he swatted at it with a checkered handkerchief. Qwerty was a predator of the moth known as the Farnsworth Pulpeater, as the Farnsworth Pulpeater is a predator of paper. It appeared to be a battle that was to go on for quite some time without Qwerty or the moths giving up.

      “Well, if you’re content,” Qwerty said, as a moth escaped his attack, “I’ll excuse myself and let you be. That young woman looks like she might need my help.”

      I stood up too quickly. Even when reading two things at once, I had been thinking of something else entirely. The something else was a girl, taller than I was or older than I was or both. She had curious eyebrows, curved and coiled like question marks, and she had a smile that might have meant anything. Her eyes were green and her hair so black it made caviar look beige, and in her possession was a statue that was blacker still. The statue was of a mythical creature called the Bombinating Beast, and it gazed out through hollow, wicked eyes at all the trouble gathered around it. The girl’s father was in trouble, captured by Hangfire, and she had tried to save him by doing favors for the Inhumane Society, so now she was in trouble too. I had promised to help her, but I hadn’t seen the girl or the statue in quite some time. The girl, and the promise I’d made, hovered in my head no matter what I was reading, and her name hovered in my ears like the song she played on an old-fashioned phonograph, and on a music box that her father had left behind. I didn’t know what the song was, but I liked it.

      Ellington Feint. Ellington Feint. Ellington Feint.

      It’s probably not her, I told myself, as I hurried to the entrance of the library, and it wasn’t. It was Moxie Mallahan, a fine journalist and a good friend, with a hat that looked like a lowercase a and a typewriter in its own folding case that could type a and all the other letters. She put the case down with a small frown of pain. Her arm was still bandaged from a recent encounter with someone good with a knife.

      “What’s the news, Moxie?” I said.

      “It’s good to see you, Snicket,” she replied. “You’re not too busy doing whatever it is you’re doing?”

      “I always have time for an associate,” I said. I led her back to my table, carrying her typewriter case. Her injury was partially my fault, as you can read in an account of mine. You don’t have to read about it. I’m sure you have your own troubles.

      “I’ve been looking through the archives of The Stain’d Lighthouse, like you asked me to,” Moxie said, sitting down across from me. “It was boring work, Snicket.”

      “I’m sure it was,” I said. The Stain’d Lighthouse was a newspaper that had once been at the breakfast table of every resident of Stain’d-by-the-Sea, thanks to the hard work of Moxie’s family. But now the newspaper had folded, a term Moxie had explained to me. It did not mean folded the way you can fold a newspaper into a hat or a boat or a man with a sword riding on a swan. It meant that it had surrendered to the ink shortages that had scared so many of the town’s citizens away. Moxie was the only journalist left in Stain’d-by-the-Sea, and the only thing left of the newspaper was vast piles of past editions, strewn around the rooms of the Mallahan lighthouse. “I’m sorry I had to ask you to do that,” I said, “but I couldn’t find anything in the library about Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s fishing industry.”

      “I looked at the business section of the newspaper,” Moxie said, “all the way back to before I was born. My mother used to say that the business section had all of the really exciting secrets hidden there in plain sight, but I’m not sure I found any. I wish she were still in town, so she would have been able to help me.”

      “I’m sure you’ll hear from her soon,” I said quickly, although I wasn’t sure at all.

      Moxie nodded, but she wasn’t looking at me. She opened her typewriter case and looked at the page of notes she’d been typing. “The business section might have exciting secrets, but it’s very boring to read.”

      “That’s probably why they hide the secrets there.”

      “Maybe so. It was difficult to stay awake while I was reading it.”

      “Maybe you should have had some coffee.”

      “Not I, Snicket. I don’t