faded and worn, their complex pattern of interwoven stars and spirals nearly invisible with age. Drawing her bedroom curtains back and opening the window wide, Mrs. McLachlan looked out at the meadow beyond, noting with satisfaction that all was quiet and still. Patting her pocket to confirm that she had the magical Soul Mirror safely stowed away, she drew a deep breath.
“Right,” she said to herself. “Time for lame excuses and apologetic groveling . . .” And crouching down to kneel on the floor, she crawled across onto the rug feeling faintly foolish. She maneuvered herself carefully into the middle and wriggled into position, keeping one hand firmly on the floorboards. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she snatched her hand off the floor and grabbed a handful of the fringe at her feet. The rug rippled and flapped, as if giant gusts of air were circling beneath it. Then, with a shudder, it rose swiftly into the air and hurled itself and its passenger through the open window at an indecent speed, causing Mrs. McLachlan's hair to come unpinned and stream out behind her.
She arrived at the library with minutes to spare. Placing her hand on the ground, she slid gingerly off the rug and rolled it up, tucking it under her arm as she pushed her way through a small bronze-paneled door.
“We're just about to close,” the librarian informed her, taking in the nanny's disheveled appearance and emitting a faint
tut
as he saw what she was holding out to him.
“I
wondered
when you were going to bring that back,” he said, drawing down his thick black brows till they joined in a furrow above his nose. “What's the excuse this time?”
Mrs. McLachlan sighed. The problem with borrowing things from the library was remembering to return them on time. “I'm so sorry,” she said simply. “I'll try to do better in the future—it's just I'm so busy, it's quite hard for me to find a moment. Actually, I almost forgot I had this.”
The librarian ran a handheld scanner across the returned artifact and pursed his lips. “Six
months
you've had this. I'm going to have to impose the maximum fine. There have been plenty of other wannabe mind readers wanting to borrow it. The soul mirror is one of our more popular items. . . . Take a seat while I dig out your file.”
Mrs. McLachlan sank into a low chair and watched, as the librarian clip-clopped across the floor to place the returned object carefully in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that lined the walls. The library consisted of this one stone-walled room, dotted here and there with small tables and deep, comfortable chairs. A fire glowed dimly in a large marble fireplace, and the room was lit by tall beeswax candles. Tiny oil-burners on the tables gave off the mixed scents of myrrh, rosemary, and juniper, and the calming sound of running water came from a lion's-head fountain in a corner by the door.
There wasn't a single book to be seen.
Remembering why she was here, Mrs. McLachlan cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I'd like to borrow something else.”
The librarian ignored this, busying himself with accessing her records on a wall-mounted screen. He was completely naked, as centaurs tend to be, but as a concession toward his role of librarian he wore a metal collar round his neck inscribed with the word ALPHA and had woven his chest hair into a single braid that swung heavily down to his hooves.
“I need a shield,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, her voice betraying some of her concern about the dangers of Fiamma d'Infer.
“They're all out on loan.” The librarian swished his tail for emphasis. “Terribly popular at the moment, shields. Last year it was laser lances, year before—”
“A Quikunpik, then,” Mrs. McLachlan interrupted, getting up and crossing the floor to stand beside the librarian. “Surely you've got one of those?”
“I'll look.” The little centaur scrolled down the list of items owned by the library until he came to the Q's.
“Right,” she said to herself. “Time for lame excuses and apologetic groveling . . .” And crouching down to kneel on the floor, she crawled across onto the rug feeling faintly foolish. She maneuvered herself carefully into the middle and wriggled into position, keeping one hand firmly on the floorboards. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she snatched her hand off the floor and grabbed a handful of the fringe at her feet. The rug rippled and flapped, as if giant gusts of air were circling beneath it. Then, with a shudder, it rose swiftly into the air and hurled itself and its passenger through the open window at an indecent speed, causing Mrs. McLachlan's hair to come unpinned and stream out behind her.
She arrived at the library with minutes to spare. Placing her hand on the ground, she slid gingerly off the rug and rolled it up, tucking it under her arm as she pushed her way through a small bronze-paneled door.
“We're just about to close,” the librarian informed her, taking in the nanny's disheveled appearance and emitting a faint
tut
as he saw what she was holding out to him.
“I
wondered
when you were going to bring that back,” he said, drawing down his thick black brows till they joined in a furrow above his nose. “What's the excuse this time?”
Mrs. McLachlan sighed. The problem with borrowing things from the library was remembering to return them on time. “I'm so sorry,” she said simply. “I'll try to do better in the future—it's just I'm so busy, it's quite hard for me to find a moment. Actually, I almost forgot I had this.”
The librarian ran a handheld scanner across the returned artifact and pursed his lips. “Six
months
you've had this. I'm going to have to impose the maximum fine. There have been plenty of other wannabe mind readers wanting to borrow it. The soul mirror is one of our more popular items. . . . Take a seat while I dig out your file.”
Mrs. McLachlan sank into a low chair and watched, as the librarian clip-clopped across the floor to place the returned object carefully in one of the glass-fronted cabinets that lined the walls. The library consisted of this one stone-walled room, dotted here and there with small tables and deep, comfortable chairs. A fire glowed dimly in a large marble fireplace, and the room was lit by tall beeswax candles. Tiny oil-burners on the tables gave off the mixed scents of myrrh, rosemary, and juniper, and the calming sound of running water came from a lion's-head fountain in a corner by the door.
There wasn't a single book to be seen.
Remembering why she was here, Mrs. McLachlan cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I'd like to borrow something else.”
The librarian ignored this, busying himself with accessing her records on a wall-mounted screen. He was completely naked, as centaurs tend to be, but as a concession toward his role of librarian he wore a metal collar round his neck inscribed with the word ALPHA and had woven his chest hair into a single braid that swung heavily down to his hooves.
“I need a shield,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, her voice betraying some of her concern about the dangers of Fiamma d'Infer.
“They're all out on loan.” The librarian swished his tail for emphasis. “Terribly popular at the moment, shields. Last year it was laser lances, year before—”
“A Quikunpik, then,” Mrs. McLachlan interrupted, getting up and crossing the floor to stand beside the librarian. “Surely you've got one of those?”
“I'll look.” The little centaur scrolled down the list of items owned by the library until he came to the Q's.
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