I take my time pacing the rows, moving slowly so I don’t disturb the fragile hush of this place. I wipe dust from the spines as I go, revealing titles one by one, and with each new book I feel my excitement grow and grow until it spills out of me in a breathless grin.
Soon I’m carefully taking them from the shelves as if I’ve stumbled into a marketplace filled entirely with my favorite things. I stack them in my arms, awkward and heavy, but I don’t care. I giggle every time I discover another treasure.
Yes, there are tomes on science, on alchemy, on agriculture and animal husbandry. Practical things. Sensible things.
But there are also books about pirates, mermaids, winged horses and heartbreak and fated lovers.
Just seeing the titles makes my mind itch with longing. With hunger. If I cracked open any of these right now, I know I’d fall straight into their worlds and never want to climb out again.
A whisper cuts through my delight.
I glance down the row and see the sprite hovering at the end, eyes gleaming, tiny hands curling toward itself in a gesture that is unmistakable.
It wants me to follow.
My arms are full of books, my common sense buried somewhere under them… but I follow anyway. I could be walking into a trap, into some new danger I won’t escape, but I don’t believe that. Not with these creatures.
I think they’re as lonely here as I am.
When I reach the end of the row, I peek around the corner with one eye open, just in case I was wrong to trust them. Just in case this is another mistake to add to the growing list.
But nothing terrifying waits for me.
Instead, I find the sprite tossing broken pieces of a collapsed bookshelf into the mouth of a fireplace tucked away in a quiet, shadowed corner of the library.
The space around it steals my breath.
Bookshelves arc around a central circle, cradling a wide, faded rug whose kaleidoscope of warm colors has dulled with time. A wooden table sits nearby, vines and leaves carved into its edges. Smaller tables are scattered throughout the space, and I cannot help imagining what once adorned them. A vase of roses. A fern reaching toward a stray sunbeam. A steaming cup of tea left to cool.
And directly before the snow-dusted fireplace sits a wing-backed chair.
Massive and plush, once rich plum and embroidered with golden baroque swirls, now reduced to the ghost of its former color. A matching footstool waits at its base, the stuffing uneven, the fabric damp and cold beneath the frost.
I can’t hide my smile. I don’t want to.
The sprite keeps tossing broken boards into the hearth, muttering furiously to itself as each scrap clatters onto the pile. Then I hear the familiar flutter of wings and glance over my shoulder. The second sprite has joined us, though it lurks behind a bookshelf, peeking around the corner with exaggerated caution.
I smile and give a small nod.
Apparently that’s all it needs. It zips past me in a blur of shimmering wings and immediately joins its companion, where the two of them launch into an argument. If I had to guess, they’re debating theproperway to build a fire. Judging by all the frantic gestures, neither agrees with the other.
While they bicker, I set my books on the carved table beside the chair and shrug off my heavy coat. I drape it over the seat, a soft barrier between me and the damp cushion, then curl myself into it, snuggling against the warm fur collar.
A sharp hiss splits the air followed by a loud pop.
Both sprites shriek and hurl themselves away from the hearth just as a brilliant fire roars to life. One sprite’s wing is smoldering, a tiny flame licking at the edge, and it flaps in a wildpanic while the other blows desperately, cheeks puffed, until at last a gust of icy breath snuffs the fire out.
When the crisis is over, they flutter back toward me, landing primly on the edge of the chair as if nothing had happened.
I let out a long, grateful breath.
Warmth from the hearth stretches across the room in slow, creeping waves until it reaches my legs dangling over the edge of the chair. My body melts into the cushion, softening in a way I haven’t felt in weeks.
I reach for one of the books on the table. I don’t care which. It doesn’t matter. Any of them will be perfect. Each one is a door to somewhere else, and I am starving for the escape.
Delicately, I pry the pages apart. They cling a little from age and frost, but they relent without tearing. Thank the gods. Damaging a book feels like a sin worthy of the Aurevault.
Then, with my boots propped on the footstool and the sprites perched on either side of me, I sink deeper into the chair and start to read.
