"Good afternoon, Miss Barnes.” Emmylou Pembroke's watery blue eyes glared through her steel-rimmed bifocals. Her graying hair was scraped back in its familiar no-nonsense bun. “I have something very important to speak with you about."

Chess set her pen down, her face frozen into the accommodating smile learned in third grade as a defense against bullies. Oh, good God, what is it now? She set aside the stack of papers and folded her hands, refusing to look up at Pembroke. Instead, she stared at the old woman's midriff. The Indignant was wearing the blue cardigan and tweed skirt today, and her liver-spotted hands trembled against her tartan bag.

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Pembroke?” Chess inquired sweetly. “It's so good to see you. May I offer you a cup of tea?” Or a face-to-face with a tentacled demon in the sewers? I think that would be just up your alley, Pem.

Pembroke clutched her small purse to her solar plexus as if strangling a small pet dog against her cardigan. “No… no tea.” She sounded shocked. Relations between Chess and the Indignant had been icily polite ever since the great Barbara Cartland fiasco, with no détente in sight.

After dealing with an octopus-looking demon, Pembroke the Indignant didn't rattle Chess nearly as much. Her shoulder still throbbed a little bit when she reached up over her head, and her face was in good shape despite the tendency of one eyelid to twinge every once in a while, when she forgot and rubbed at it. Her hair didn't smell like filthy garbage water, for which she was extremely grateful. Her clothes had lost the smell of sewer after a good two-day soaking in laundry detergent.

Around them, the library dozed in its usual midweek rustles and dust. Chess glanced over, seeing sleek-haired Sharon behind the circulation desk, checking out a stack of romances for a fluffy-haired teenage girl who was methodically placing each paperback in a plastic bag to take home. Sharon's dark, immaculate eyebrows rose as she watched Pembroke sink down in one of the two chairs across from the Reference desk. The message was clear. Need some help?

I'll call if I need backup, Share. Chess's wry smile acknowledged her concern. Pembroke, as usual, got right to the point.

"I checked this out yesterday,” she began, digging in her purse. Her cheap gold watch flashed, and her earrings, shaped like big plastic cherries, bobbed. Her beaky nose was having trouble holding her bifocals perched on the end, and Chess wished suddenly, vengefully, for them to fall off.

Oh, stop it. She's just a harmless old woman. This is the only happiness she gets from the drudgery of daily life.

Then Pembroke held up a Mylar-coated book. It was a copy of Huckleberry Finn.

Chess braced herself. The desire to bray with laughter rose, was suppressed with a violence that tickled her throat and stung her eyes. Oh, Lord, forgive me. What now?

Pembroke took a deep breath. “What is this smut doing in my library?” she huffed. “Do you know what's in this book?” Her voice dropped theatrically. “The “N” word, Miss Barnes! On almost every page! It's indecent, it's filthy, and I wish this book taken off the shelves immediately."

Oh, Christ, help me. I'm about to strangle a crazy old woman who scrubs the floor down at St. Ignatius's. Chess's fingers tightened against each other, she could almost feel her knuckles creaking. The urge to laugh and the urge to throw a paperweight rose hand-in-hand, and she suddenly felt much better. Almost normal. “I've explained to you before that I can't take books off the shelves, Mrs. Pembroke. My job as a librarian is to keep them on the shelves."

Her cheeks flushed angrily. “But think of the children, Miss Barnes! This—this filth was in the Young Adult section!"

What were you doing in the Young Adult section, Mrs. Pembroke? Inspiration struck. “Have you spoken to Father Bruce about this, ma'am?"

The Indignant blinked her watery eyes.

Chess persisted. “You might want to see what he says. I know Father Bruce personally, and would love to hear from him after you talk. We can't take Huckleberry Finn off the shelf, but maybe Father Bruce and I can work together to find a list of books you would like better."

Pem was not mollified. “I certainly don't want to bring this filth to the good Father's attention!” she hissed, her eyes bulging.

It was official. The urge to throw a paperweight at the old biddy's head was winning. Not only that, but Pembroke the Indignant was actually swelling like a poison toad.

Sharon was now done with the teenager and her romance novels, and was watching the scene play out with a worried line between her eyebrows. She seemed even more worried when Chess gave her a tight smile.

That is officially it. I have had enough. Francesca took a deep breath. “Mrs. Pembroke, not a week goes by without you coming to my office or bothering my staff about something you feel is indecent. If this library is such a sinkhole of filth and corruption, why don't you patronize the parish library on Twelfth Street? I'm sure they will have texts more to your taste.” Chess gained her feet in one motion. She could feel the little betraying tic in her cheek that meant she was wearing her mother's patented You-Are-Aware-I-Am-Potentially-Deadly? expression, the one Mom sharpened to perfection on Principal Bonhoffer when Chess was in tenth grade. Pembroke leaned back in her chair, her face suddenly going cheesy-pale. But Chess simply leaned over the desk and snatched the Mylar-jacketed book from her bony claws. “I will take care of checking this back in for you. I expect your other books will be returned in a timely fashion, and if you are unhappy with our library we will be more than happy to cancel your card. Good day, ma'am."

"But I'm not finished—” Pembroke began, too late.

Oh, yes, you are. It wasn't politic to annoy the old biddy, she would probably start a letter-writing campaign to get the Head Librarian fired. It was just the sort of crusade that could fill her time effectively.

She's probably just lonely and unhappy, really. But dammit, nobody insults Mark Twain on my watch. Chess marched back to the circulation desk. Sharon stared, leaning against the counter; her dark hair pulled back under a white headband that complimented her tartan skirt and crisp white blouse. She had a green pashmina draped over her shoulders; she was the only person who could wear a pashmina without looking ridiculous. Of course, it could have been because she was a little under six foot tall and model-willowy, with large doelike eyes and a cherry mouth. Despite her obvious physical attributes, she was a good coworker, intelligent, punctual, cheerful, and just occasionally sarcastic enough to be interesting.

Chess carefully didn't slam the little thigh-high swinging door that was more a psychological deterrent than a barrier. It clicked shut, and she crossed to one of the computer terminals. She could feel the French twist she'd trapped her hair in this morning beginning to loosen, and wanted to lock herself in the bathroom to secure it. She also wanted a bacon cheeseburger, with an intensity that surprised her. Of course, she'd skipped breakfast. Again.

"What was that?” Sharon peered over Chess's shoulder.

Pembroke was gathering herself, it seemed. I hope she doesn't want a rematch. I don't think I'd be able to restrain myself. “She had a problem with Mark Twain's use of the Southern vernacular,” Chess whispered back. “I told her we could cancel her card any time she wants. Suggested she go to the parish library."

Sharon's cheeks flushed and her mouth twitched. “She's looking.” It was a good jailyard whisper, her lips barely moved. “Dear God."

"I know.” Chess keyed her code into the computer terminal and checked the book back in, her fingers lingering gently on the cover. Poor Mark Twain, having to put up with her. Of course, he probably would have withered her with jolly sarcasm without her ever suspecting. “I have officially defended Sam Clemens's honor. Just call me a white knight."