across my face. There's got to be something here I can use. Maybe there will be modern books. Or even just old ones that might hold some useful information I could glean from their pages.
I inhale the scent of paper and books as I shut the door behind me and step inside.
There are dozens of shelves -- rows and rows of them. They tower over my head. There's even one of those old ladders attached to the wall.
I run my fingers over the spines and walk down the rows, looking at the titles. Utopia. The Miser. Robinson Crusoe. Katie would go all geeky if she were here with me right now ...
She loves literature, especially anything in first edition. She collects books like she collects MySpace friends.
The books are all leather, and the titles are old. I pause at a collection of Shakespeare. Othello. Romeo and Juliet. A Midsummer Night's Dream. I pull Hamlet out and look at it, but then set it back down on the shelf.
I pass a row of books on philosophy, and another on astrology. Up and down I go, pausing now and then, but not pulling any books out. I'm not sure what I expected to find.
The Idiot's Guide to Time Travel?
Whatever it is, it's not here.
I round the last shelf and go over to the sofa and plop down on it. This is all so ... tiring. I want to be home. In my bed. I want to wake up and watch Saturday morning cartoons with a bowl of cereal. I lie back on a pillow, my dress draped over my legs and hanging over the edge of the cushions, toward the floor.
Oh, what am I doing? Hanging out in this library isn't going to do me any good. I've got to keep searching.
I sit up and stare down at my shoes. Maybe if I were wearing something more comfortable, walking around the house wouldn't suck so much. I reach down to adjust the buckle, loosening it one notch. As I go to adjust the other shoe, I see something. It's a stack of papers, shoved between the small table and the leg of the couch. I reach down and slide them out. There's a ribbon around them, so that the bundle is a few inches thick. They're letters. The wax seals are broken, so it's clear they've been read. I slip the ribbon off.
That's when I hear the door click open. What do I do? Hide? Oh God, I'm probably not supposed to be digging around in here, picking up letters that are not mine. And what if this room is supposed to be off-limits?
Panicked, I duck behind the sofa, the stack of papers still in my hand. It's elevated off the floor with four spindly legs, so I can make out the shoes of the person stepping inside.
I recognize the leather riding boots of Alex. The duke.
Crap. Why am I hiding? Doesn't this look suspicious? The letters practically burn in my hands. What if these are his? Maybe I should have just sat there, all casual. But now what do I do? Pretend like I lost a contact?
Oh, right. They don't have contacts yet.
God, this is so stupid!
I try to keep my breathing steady, even though I am terrifyingly close to panting like a dog. He walks up and down the room for what seems like an hour but is probably ten minutes. I can hear him sliding books in and out of the shelves. I will him to just pick up a book and leave with it. If he's looking for these letters, he's not going to find them without finding me.
My knees are starting to ache from kneeling on the thin carpet. Haven't they ever heard of carpet pad?
When he gets to the Shakespeare section near the far window, he pauses. What did I do with that Hamlet book? Did I put it back, or did I just set it down on the edge of the shelf?
And then he starts walking toward me. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep from freaking out. Part of me wants to pop to my feet and yell, Boo! like it was just a little joke, but somehow I don't think he'll find it funny. Plus, he's probably still pretty mad about the whole breakfast thing earlier today.
I watch his boots pivot slightly, and then he stops moving. What's he looking for?
What's he waiting for?
But then he turns on his heel and walks out, just
I inhale the scent of paper and books as I shut the door behind me and step inside.
There are dozens of shelves -- rows and rows of them. They tower over my head. There's even one of those old ladders attached to the wall.
I run my fingers over the spines and walk down the rows, looking at the titles. Utopia. The Miser. Robinson Crusoe. Katie would go all geeky if she were here with me right now ...
She loves literature, especially anything in first edition. She collects books like she collects MySpace friends.
The books are all leather, and the titles are old. I pause at a collection of Shakespeare. Othello. Romeo and Juliet. A Midsummer Night's Dream. I pull Hamlet out and look at it, but then set it back down on the shelf.
I pass a row of books on philosophy, and another on astrology. Up and down I go, pausing now and then, but not pulling any books out. I'm not sure what I expected to find.
The Idiot's Guide to Time Travel?
Whatever it is, it's not here.
I round the last shelf and go over to the sofa and plop down on it. This is all so ... tiring. I want to be home. In my bed. I want to wake up and watch Saturday morning cartoons with a bowl of cereal. I lie back on a pillow, my dress draped over my legs and hanging over the edge of the cushions, toward the floor.
Oh, what am I doing? Hanging out in this library isn't going to do me any good. I've got to keep searching.
I sit up and stare down at my shoes. Maybe if I were wearing something more comfortable, walking around the house wouldn't suck so much. I reach down to adjust the buckle, loosening it one notch. As I go to adjust the other shoe, I see something. It's a stack of papers, shoved between the small table and the leg of the couch. I reach down and slide them out. There's a ribbon around them, so that the bundle is a few inches thick. They're letters. The wax seals are broken, so it's clear they've been read. I slip the ribbon off.
That's when I hear the door click open. What do I do? Hide? Oh God, I'm probably not supposed to be digging around in here, picking up letters that are not mine. And what if this room is supposed to be off-limits?
Panicked, I duck behind the sofa, the stack of papers still in my hand. It's elevated off the floor with four spindly legs, so I can make out the shoes of the person stepping inside.
I recognize the leather riding boots of Alex. The duke.
Crap. Why am I hiding? Doesn't this look suspicious? The letters practically burn in my hands. What if these are his? Maybe I should have just sat there, all casual. But now what do I do? Pretend like I lost a contact?
Oh, right. They don't have contacts yet.
God, this is so stupid!
I try to keep my breathing steady, even though I am terrifyingly close to panting like a dog. He walks up and down the room for what seems like an hour but is probably ten minutes. I can hear him sliding books in and out of the shelves. I will him to just pick up a book and leave with it. If he's looking for these letters, he's not going to find them without finding me.
My knees are starting to ache from kneeling on the thin carpet. Haven't they ever heard of carpet pad?
When he gets to the Shakespeare section near the far window, he pauses. What did I do with that Hamlet book? Did I put it back, or did I just set it down on the edge of the shelf?
And then he starts walking toward me. I cover my mouth with my hand to keep from freaking out. Part of me wants to pop to my feet and yell, Boo! like it was just a little joke, but somehow I don't think he'll find it funny. Plus, he's probably still pretty mad about the whole breakfast thing earlier today.
I watch his boots pivot slightly, and then he stops moving. What's he looking for?
What's he waiting for?
But then he turns on his heel and walks out, just
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