Chimes at Midnight

“I do adore a woman who channels magic via Shakespeare,” said Tybalt.

“Flirt later, business now,” I said. There was a narrow doorway in the left corner of the room, tucked between two dilapidated bookshelves. I kept my hands up to prevent the illusion from slipping back into place, and started for the opening, Quentin and Tybalt close behind me. The golden haze snapped as we passed into the next room, leaving our eyes unclouded. And what we found was . . . more books. Given that we were looking for a library, that probably shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was.

“Um, Toby?”

“Yeah, Quentin?”

“The door’s gone.”

I turned, and realized he was right. We were standing at a spot where four paths through the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves met. At least I assumed they were floor-to-ceiling; they actually stretched away into the dark above, disappearing toward a point I couldn’t see. There were no obvious exits, just more shelves, stretching out into forever. They were spotlessly clean, loaded down with books until I was pretty sure that they constituted a fire hazard.

Judging by the volumes in view, whoever ran the place had been collecting books for centuries without bothering to actually sort anything. The Colored Fairy books were shelved next to a pile of torrid-looking romances, several broad, flat art books, and a hefty leather-bound volume with a Latin title. It was like we were standing in the world’s largest used bookstore.

And there were no clerks, or Librarians, in sight.

“Hello?” I called, hesitantly. I wasn’t sure what Library etiquette was, and I didn’t want to start out by pissing off the Librarian. Li Qin had called her “a nice enough sort,” but we were talking about Li Qin here. Her definition of “nice” was questionable at best, and at worst included things I didn’t even want to think about. Some of us are more naturally tolerant than others, I suppose.

The dusty silence didn’t change. I exchanged a look with Quentin and Tybalt. “Should we wait here, or go looking?”

“I honestly have no idea,” said Tybalt. He shook his head. “I’ve always been more interested in oral histories than written ones.”

“Waiting, maybe?” said Quentin. “Seems polite.”

“Okay.” I turned to study a bookshelf. Quentin and Tybalt did the same. Several minutes slipped by, until finally I turned and called again, more loudly, “Hello?”

“Coming!” shouted a cheerful, British-accented voice from somewhere in the maze of shelves. “Hold on a moment, shall you? I’m coming as fast as I can!”

“We’ll be right here,” I called back. After several more minutes, a small figure slipped out from behind one of the shelves, her arms full of books. Her clothes were dowdy, suited to rummaging through dusty old tomes and cobwebbed shelves: an ankle-length black skirt, sensible shoes, and a tweed sweater over a white blouse. She looked about fifteen years old. There was an odd bulge on her back, like she was wearing some kind of brace.

“Hullo!” she said. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long. Time can be a mite squirrelly in here.” She dropped her armload of books on the nearest available surface—another pile of books. Near as I could tell, the Library was a paper avalanche waiting to happen. “Welcome to the Library of Stars.”

She was short, maybe five-two, with a slim, almost frail build. Her hair was the bright copper color of new pennies, and cut short in a bob that framed a heart-shaped face dominated by enormous dark blue eyes. Something was wrong with the way they focused. I squinted, trying to figure out what about those eyes was bothering me, and then dismissed it with a slight shake of my head. I was jumpy. Being exiled does that to me.