That's the appeal of some libraries, though, isn't it? The winding pathways between the tall stacks of books; the shelves that seem to recede on and on into the distance, dim and inviting and seemingly endless.
After all, if you can get lost in a good book, it stands to reason that a good library ought to be the best place in the world to lose yourself.
It's quite dark indeed, this far back, well away from any windows. There are lights, of course, but not too bright - some of these books are very, very old.
The air here is dry, and tastes faintly of tin against the palate. The smell of magic; or, the eldritch.
(Strangely enough, a great deal of people believe that this is a word that means 'oblong'. While this is not in fact true, in this particular case it is surprisingly... accurate.)
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After all, if you can get lost in a good book, it stands to reason that a good library ought to be the best place in the world to lose yourself.
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Andrew frowns at the shelf he's looking at, and turns a corner. Ah, there we are; that looks more like prophecies and apocalyptychs.
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The air here is dry, and tastes faintly of tin against the palate. The smell of magic; or, the eldritch.
(Strangely enough, a great deal of people believe that this is a word that means 'oblong'. While this is not in fact true, in this particular case it is surprisingly... accurate.)
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One book, sticking out a little further than the others, snags his fingertips. He pauses --
Two things I don't believe in, Buffy used to say, coincidence and leprechauns.
He pulls out the book, and squints at it. The title's hard to make out, in this dim light.
It looks like it might be brighter up there.
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