1
Quinn
Thelibrarymademehesitate, and not many things had that power anymore.
My stare flicked between the white, faded sign and the old home behind it. It seemed hand-painted, the letters intricate and curved but chipping at the edges as it displayed the name of the building beyond it: Ember Hollow Memorial Library.
The house looked like it was plucked from another century. Its red bricks were steady and stately, with white trimmed eaves and a round turreted porch that resembled a gazebo on the left side. I had noticed similar houses throughout the little town but hadn’t expected the only library to look more like a grandmother’s house than a public building.
I debated leaving my vehicle. The parking lot was tiny; only one other car sat a few feet away. My fingers wrapped around the strap of my work bag. I had wanted a quiet place to go over my case notes before court but hadn’t expected this…it felt like I was trespassing on someone’s personal property.
I glanced at the time, wondering whether a coffee shop would be a better option, but quickly dismissed the idea. Even with a town as small as Ember Hollow, the shop would be bustling at this hour of the morning as people stopped before work.
I needed quiet to focus. Today was important.
Taking a deep breath, I slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the cool fall morning.
The entrance to the library was at the back of the house, and I tentatively stepped up onto the smaller rear porch and opened the heavy door. The brass hinges squeaked as a wave of warm air rushed over me.
Crossing the threshold, I froze as the scent of dust and ink and paper hit me. The walls were covered in shelves loaded with books, from the floor and stretching up toward the tall ceilings. The woodwork was intricate; the moldings carved with filigree and painted gold.
I glanced around. The house was so quiet, every sound deafened by the sheer volume of paper and binding surrounding me. No one seemed nearby. I hadn’t even seen a front desk or a librarian. It was like walking through an 1800s labyrinth.
On silent feet, I meandered deeper into the house. The place wasn’t small, but it was segmented, each room labeled by genrewith a rectangular plaque nailed onto the top of the entryway. I paused near a room near the back staircase labeled: Romance.
I needed a table or a chair to sit down and work, but I grabbed my watch. It was too big, and I had to twist it to see the round, scuffed watch face. I rationalized a few minutes to spare for personal use and ducked inside the romance room.
I’d always had a soft spot for romance novels. Wallpaper with pink roses peeked out from the top of the bookshelves in the room. The hardwood floor creaked under my feet as I studied the spines of the books. Some of the tension eased from my body, being surrounded by something I loved. I didn’t have much time for pleasure reading, but it had always been a big part of my life. I managed a few pages every day before bed, usually.
Finding one of my favorite authors, I stopped to inspect the titles. I’d read them all, of course, but I wasn’t against a reread.
I reached for one of my favorite novels when a soft sound stopped me. I stilled, looking around my feet, thinking I’d imagined it.
It sounded like a cat, but nothing prowled the ground.
I shook my head, glancing back at the book spines, when I heard it again—a clear and distinctmeowcoming from above.
Looking up, I stifled a small gasp as a pair of bright amber eyes met mine. At the very top of the shelf, a black cat lounged between two stacks of books. It blinked at me. I blinked back.
I glanced over my shoulder toward the entryway, wondering whether a cat was supposed to be in here. It shouldn’t be, right? This was a public building—at least, that’s what the sign out front said. I wasn’t so convinced.
Another noise distracted me—not a meow, but something shifting—and I looked up as one of the larger books fell straight toward my face.
I didn’t have time to step out of the way. I yelped in pain and surprise, spots flashing in my vision as the corner of the heavy hardback struck me and then fell to the floor with a thud.
Eyes watering, I pressed my hands against the throbbing spot on my head. When I looked back up, the cat was still blinking at me, tail flicking, one book missing from the stack it had been leaning on.
I grimaced at the animal, a curse on the tip of my tongue.
“Calliope, that wasn’t very nice.”
An unfamiliar, deep voice came from behind me. I whirled around. A man stood there, dark curls falling over his forehead. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his slacks as he grimaced up at the cat.
Then his gaze bounced to me. His eyes were a clear, deep blue. Like the sky on a perfectly cloudless day.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Something warm and wet slid down my temple, and a muscle in his jaw ticced. He stepped toward me quickly, those blue eyes searching my face, concern etched in the lines around his mouth.
