The shelves with books weren’t arranged by genre. Or author. Or even alphabetically. They were arranged by color. A full, vibrating rainbow wrapped around the shop like it had been curated by someone with a very enthusiastic, very specific case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
How do you even find anything?she murmured to herself.
A massive figure emerged from behind a shelf—skin a deep slate blue, hair thick and dark. A troll. He loomed over the counter, his presence filling the room with a sense of solid, unmovable weight.
“How can I help?” he rumbled, his voice like river stones grinding together.
“I’m just looking,” Sylvie said, blinking.
“I hope you like the arrangement,” he said proudly. “Everything is cataloged by RAL color code.”
He puffed out his chest, looking immensely pleased with himself.
“It’s... interesting,” she managed, her eyes tracking from a shelf of “Dusty Rose” to “Signal Blue.”
“If you need anything specific, I can tell you exactly where it is. I have the hex codes memorized.”
She believed him. He was currently swapping two books on the shelf so their shades aligned perfectly with their neighbors. Sylvie frowned thoughtfully. The whole point of browsing in a bookshop was to let a book find you, but this rainbow-coded logic made that almost impossible unless you brought a color swatch and a guide. Still, she gave it a shot.
“I’m looking for something about... traditions. Folklore. Baking history, maybe?”
The troll scratched his chin, the sound like sandpaper on wood. “Ah. That will be RAL 1002 through to 2007. The amber section.”
He pointed decisively toward a dignified, orange corner of the shop. She had just reached the indicated shelf when the bellabove the door chimed again. A small, bulky man wandered in, looking like he’d just come from a workshop.
“Hi, Bobby,” the troll rumbled from behind the counter. “Same as usual?”
Sylvie blinked.Was she in a pub or a bookstore?
“Yes,” the man replied easily, leaning against the counter. “I need the next one in theBlooming Bakingseries.”
“And what are we attempting this week?” the troll asked with a touch of pity.
Bobby shrugged, a sheepish smile touching his face. “I want to try something dragon-made. The impish macarons exploded on me—I followed the recipe exactly, but they’re... volatile. My kitchen still smells of sulfur and burnt sugar.”
“Which is why I keep telling you to try something human,” the troll said, casting a brief, wary glance toward Sylvie. “Their physics are much more predictable.”
Bobby snorted. “Eh. Not sure. Their recipes are a bit... beige. Not very exciting.”
Sylvie bit back a smile and turned to scan the shelf. One title caught her eye immediately:101 Ways to Work the Flame.
It sounded suspiciously like a dragon-themedKama Sutra. She reached for it.
“Oh! That’s a dragon’s fire-handling manual. A very special edition,” the troll called from across the shop. “Quite rare, actually. Only one edition was ever printed.”
She hadn’t noticed Bobby appear beside her, his eyes locked on the book like it held the answer to the meaning of life.
“That’s exactly what I was looking for,” he said, his voice eager. “I need to understand the heat displacement.”
Sylvie felt a sharp spike of competitiveness and drew the book slightly closer to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, polite but firm. “I’m taking this one.”
His face fell, and he looked like a puppy who had just been told the park was closed.
“I heard you’re into baking?” she asked, trying to soften the blow.
“Oh, yes!” His gloom evaporated instantly. “It’s my passion. Well, my new passion.”
“He used to be a blacksmith,” the troll interjected, leaning over the counter. “Now he tempers chocolate instead of steel and browses for instructions to improve his spatula skills. It’s a tragedy, really.”
