Chapter 85 The Knox
The Knox
___________.
___ahem___.
(coughing)
___ahem___.
(clears throat)
Ahem!
(clears throat)
Well, that was unexpected (clears throat louder). Excuse me; there’s a bit of lingering dust. Most of it, though, is from the new construction. I am, as they say, risen from the ashes.
Yes, yes, the rumors are true; I have gotten quite the rebirth.
As per the architectural plans, I am emerging even more stately, more refined, and more elegant this time around.
And, dare I add, more fireproof. Sprinklers have been discreetly built into my ceilings, woodburning chimneys converted to the convenience of gas, and all structural lumber composed exclusively of fire-retardant-treated wood.
Oh, the utter delights of twenty-first-century craftsmanship and Boston’s cleverest minds!
All, naturally, in the most charming and exclusive neighborhood in America.
One area that did not require improvement: the fireproof safes that cradle the scrolls.
One never really knows if such fire ratings are to be trusted—two thousand degrees for up to 240 minutes always seemed like a bit of a stretch to me—but I’ll be the first to admit that my doubts were proven unnecessary.
Now, I only hope that those dreadful tourists will soon lose interest. They’ve been coming in appalling numbers on weekends, often dressed in the most unseemly attire.
Their hair, the most ridiculous shades of colors, and some with unmentionable piercings.
It’s an epidemic of riffraff. And the spectacle they are making!
Leaving flowers at my former steps. Whispering prayers.
Conducting geomancy divination readings—as if they had a clue how to perform this sacred practice.
Worse still are the gawking ordinary tourists—so uninspired, so pathetically dull.
Good heavens.
The construction’s end is in sight, and it cannot arrive a moment too soon. Order simply must be restored. I have suffered far too many indignities.
Onward, now, to the next few decades. I’ll miss Rose, but there’ll be another Rose.
There always is.