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Corporate Property

Valerie

In the library of Saltweather, it’s always quiet. I align the spine of A History of Coastal Trade with the wooden edge of the shelf, and the cardboard cover catches before sliding into place.

“Right on the line,” I murmur, pushing the book flush with its neighbors. I stay balanced on the second rung of my short wooden step stool for another moment, admiring the row for longer than anyone reasonably should.

The aisle smells of aging paper and binding glue, with the faint dust no amount of cleaning ever completely gets rid of. I’ve worked here long enough that I usually stop noticing it. But every so often I catch the scent properly and remember how much I like this place.

Saltweather itself has never been particularly interested in order. The sea decides when the fishing boats come in, when the harbor freezes, and occasionally whether the east end of the breakwater stays attached to town. The library is easier. Books have numbers, shelves have labels, and misplaced things can usually be found again.

Across the room, a massive troll in a bright yellow raincoat sits at the reinforced reading table. Enough saltwater has collected beneath his boots to make me consider the wet-floor sign. Mr. Horvik is too absorbed in an oversized nautical map to notice the puddle.

One blunt granite finger traces the coastline with painstaking care, tapping the oak every few seconds with a dull thud. We reinforced the table after his third visit, when one of the original legs developed a crack. The damage alarmed city maintenance considerably more than it alarmed Mr. Horvik.

Standard library furniture simply wasn’t designed with trolls in mind. Now he comes in twice a week, takes the same chair, and reads in perfect silence.

A soft rustle comes from the children’s section below me. Nita sits cross-legged on the faded carpet with an oversized picture book across her knees. Both feathered hands are planted in the center seam as she tries to flatten a stubborn page.

“You’re bending the binding, Nita,” I tell her as I climb down from the stool. I wheel the book cart aside and head over. By the time I reach her, she has already put on her most innocent expression.

The open page shows a paper dragon perched on a cardboard mountain, its red wings folded into the crease. “You have to be careful with the pop-up pages,” I say, crouching beside her. “The glue on that dragon is starting to wear out.”

“I’m being gentle, Miss Val,” Nita assures me, chirping softly in the back of her throat. One feathered fingertip settles on the cardboard tab beneath the dragon. “He only breathes fire if you pull this fast, see?”

“Nita, I don’t think you need to demonstrate—” I begin, but she yanks the tab before I can finish. A small burst of flame spits from the dragon’s mouth. Orange light flashes across her face before disappearing into a thin curl of smoke.

The faint smell of sulfur settles over the carpet, and I stare at the book before looking back at Nita. She gives me a bright, hopeful smile, as though the fire has somehow proved she was being careful.

“Just keep the fire on the paper, please,” I tell her. “I finished organizing the fantasy section yesterday, and I’d rather not explain scorch marks to the city council.”

“I won’t burn anything,” Nita promises, pulling the book closer to herself. Her expression is solemn enough that somebody who met her less often might even believe her.

“That is what you said about the phoenix book,” I remind her. Nita’s feathers fluff defensively around her arms as she looks up at me.

“That was different,” she protests, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth ruins the effect. I raise my eyebrows until she lowers her head toward the book again.

“The curtains disagreed,” I say, and Nita gives up trying to look innocent. Behind us, Mr. Horvik turns another heavy sheet of parchment while the old radiator clicks softly near the circulation desk.

A frantic shout carries through the open windows at the front of the library. Noise from the quay travels farther than people expect, especially when the wind is coming in from the harbor. Another shout joins the first, then several more.

Mr. Horvik lifts his head from the map, and Nita turns toward the windows. The feathers along her arms rise slightly. A second later, the front doors slam open hard enough to strike the plaster wall.

Marta bursts into the foyer with her wings spread wide. She is Nita’s mother, and one of my oldest friends. Rain darkens the feathers along her shoulders, and the smell of raw fish and coastal brine follows her inside. It cuts straight through the warmer scent of paper and dust.

“Marta, what happened?” I ask, already moving toward the circulation desk. She does angry exceptionally well and loud even better, but I’ve almost never seen her frightened.

“They’re shutting down the docks,” she says, breathing hard as she points toward the quay. “You need to come outside.”

“Who is shutting down the docks?” I ask, but Marta is already turning toward the doors. She normally has plenty to say. Her refusal to stop and explain sends a knot of worry through me.

I grab my cardigan from the hook beside the desk and look back toward Nita. “Stay inside with Mr. Horvik, and please don’t touch the fire tab while I’m gone.”

“But Miss Val—” Nita starts, taking one hopeful step toward me. I give her a look, and she immediately retreats toward the picture book.

“Fine, Miss Val,” she mutters, while Mr. Horvik gives me a solemn nod from behind his map. Apparently he has accepted temporary responsibility for both a harpy child and a potentially flammable dragon.