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Eastern wing up there. But—”
    â€œCan I take this page out of the diary? With just the spell on it?”
    â€œThey’re your books, Tim.”
    â€œCome on, Sam!” I shouted. “Goodbye, Madame S.! Don’t sell the glass!”
    *   *   *
    The National Museum has always been one of my favorite places. I caught Lorenzo’s enthusiasm the first time we went there. I love a spot, like the National or Madame Sosostris’s antique shop, where the things of the past that might have died still have a chance.
    There are bushes in front of the building, and I told Sam to get in under the leaves and stay there—and stay away from other dogs, too, because this was a very important day. There was no time for socializing. Then I ran up the big flight of stairs to the entrance. Usually I like to march up solemnly—it feels formal and fun—but not today.
    I asked a guard where I could find an expert in Arabic, of course without telling him why—no sense wasting time with disbelief. He said the chairman’s office of the Near Eastern Division was just down that hall and pointed the way.
    But the chairman, when I told him I wanted a spell translated, looked busy and said, “Try Mr. Dickinson. Basement rear, to the left. He’s an expert on spells.”
    It turned out that Mr. Dickinson wasn’t an expert on spells—as yet—although he did know Arabic very well. His field was Near Eastern crockery. I found him in this crazy little room all full of pieces of broken pots and bowls. A lot of them came from a time much earlier than I was after, but they were interesting anyway. It was his job to try to fit the pieces together. I liked him for the patience it must have taken. And I also liked the way his hair, which was fluffy and white, puffed out around his ears.
    â€œSir,” I began at the door, “I have this spell that I’d like translated into Arabic.”
    â€œOh, how delightful! A spell.” Naturally he didn’t believe it either. “Come in, come in. But I’m afraid that someone’s been teasing you. My study is crockery.”
    â€œOh, that’s all right,” I said. “Would you just translate this, please?”
    I gave him the page from Lorenzo’s diary, and he read the verse over, murmuring, “Charming! Absolutely charming!”
    â€œI’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “But I don’t speak Arabic. Just English. And a little bit of Latin.”
    â€œI tell you what,” said Mr. Dickinson. “I’ll write this out phonetically. You just have to pronounce the syllables.”
    â€œThat will be fine,” I said.
    He kind of mumbled and hummed to himself as he worked. Then when he was finished, he said, “Now I’ll just read it once aloud to—”
    â€œ No ! Please.” I took the paper out of his hand. “I’ll do that.”
    â€œA very curious incantation,” said Mr. Dickinson. “Might I ask who invented it?”
    â€œA man named Al-Hazred.”
    Beneath his puff balls Mr. Dickinson’s ears pricked up. “Akbar Al-Hazred? The Master of Magic?”
    That wind began to blow through my brain again. Just a little breeze now—but growing. “You know him?”
    â€œAkbar Al-Rizna Al-Hazred—” Mr. Dickinson’s voice got kind of teachy, but I didn’t mind—“the Master of Magic, as subsequent sorcerers, warlocks, and alchemists styled him, was a man who lived in the eighth century of our era. And he was reputed to be a great and powerful wizard. Upstairs we have a tapestry—the Wizard’s Tapestry, it’s called—supposed to have been woven by him, or at least under his command. In fact, we have two rooms upstairs containing objects that are supposed to have belonged to him.”
    I’d been in one of them, with Lorenzo. The wind started up in my heart now—strong.