entropía temporal

Excerpt from the eighth journal of Adrien Agreste, written at Sassolungo Castle in Italy, on the first of November 1809.

There are times when I think myself unfit to be called a Traveler, much less an Adventurer, for my Heart longs for the feeling of Home above all these foreign cliffs and castles. Still, at times like this I am reminded of how necessary my Travels are and why I must continue them.

At first, my only desire was to honor my Parents. That was the Feeling, the unabating Urge, which drove me to the treacherous Forests of the Harz Mountains, to the Supljara Cave, and to even the farthest reaches of Europe, but with Time’s passing a new Desire grows within me.

There is something wild growing in the Darkness; when I close my Eyes I can feel it growing. It is a most disturbing Feeling, and one I am not alone in noticing. The Mages of Tikki and Plagg have felt it also, and have noted its Growth. It cares not for the Moon, nor the Stars, nor the Sun, but its Presence continues to spread unchecked at all times.

I fear if we do not find its cause ere the spring festivals’ start, it will prove too powerful to be Destroyed, and so I have made it my business to uncover its Secrets. This Darkening is surely a sign of a stronger, more sinister Magic, and I fear that there are things darker and still more guileful to come of it. I must make all Haste to prevent its growth, which is why I must journey to the edges of Light, to the place where my parents died…

_-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_

It was Marinette’s first day at work.

The small library was much bigger than Marinette had expected, or at least it felt that way. In half an hour’s worth of shelf reading, she’d only gotten through four shelves, not nearly as many as she’d hoped to check. She had decided to blame it on the call numbers; the way they were printed on the books varied depending on when they had been added to the collection, and she was finding that made older ones difficult to read. Those numbers, written in fading black ink directly on the books’ covers, were the hardest to make out, and she’d wasted several minutes trying to tell 8s and 6s apart.

But it was almost time for her lunch break, so Marinette jotted down her progress on the chart the head librarian had given her and returned to the circulation desk, where an old man was insisting that the new computers did not work, or if they did, they were far too confusing for an eighty-year-old to understand.

“I’m just trying to log into my email account, but I can’t even find the right button to turn the thing on,” the man said, tapping his cane on the floor emphatically.

“I can help with that!” Marinette folded her paper and set it down. “If you’ll just lead me to the computer you were using, I can get you signed in, no problem!”

The other library intern, whose lunch break came just before Marinette’s, smiled gratefully at her. She grinned back. Some people didn’t like this part of the job, but to Marinette it didn’t seem so bad. Then again, it was only her first day as an intern.

“Oh, thank you!” The man seemed very relieved, and he slowly began making his way over to the computers. He lowered himself into the third chair from the left with a heavy sigh. “I’ve already tried jiggling the mouse, but I don’t know if it’s even connected, because nothing’s happening.”

Marinette frowned and glanced at the monitor. The power button was hidden at the back of the screen, so she carefully turned the monitor around to check. As she thought, the button wasn’t glowing. She pressed it once and waited for it to turn green, and within seconds, the monitor was displaying its login screen.

“There you go, sir. Log in as a guest and let me know if you have problems getting to your email. Okay?”

The man smiled and clapped his hands together, knocking over his wooden cane. “Thank yo— oh! Thank you again, miss,” he laughed as Marinette picked up the cane and handed it to him. “Don’t know why they’re hiding the important buttons behind the screen these days. Made me look like a fool, didn’t it?”

Marinette smiled. “It just takes a while to get used to. And don’t worry, I was happy to help!”

The old man waved as Marinette turned to walk back to the desk.

That wasn’t so bad, she thought cheerfully. At least I’m doing some things right at this job.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was not a librarian, nor did she have any intention of becoming one. But it was summer break, and she wanted to get a head start on internship credits for university. All the fashion houses in Paris had already chosen interns; luckily, it didn’t matter where the internship was as long as it provided some of the same skills working at a fashion house would, which this position did. It wasn’t even hard to get, since most people looking to work at a library applied to the François-Mitterrand Library, ignoring this smaller location, which was a mere municipal library not part of the BnF. The position paid decently well, and it guaranteed Marinette the extra credit she needed to give her a boost at university.

I already have a robust resume anyway, she had told herself when she’d been debating whether to apply to the little Bourgeois Library or not. Being Jagged Stone’s favorite costume and album designer has to count for something! And my designs have been featured in Style Queen a few times, too. Next year, I can have my pick of Paris’ fashion houses to work at.

It was time for Marinette’s lunch break, so she clocked out and grabbed the lunch her mother had packed. Normally, she would have gone somewhere else to make the most of her break, but she wanted to explore the library a bit more. There were lots of rooms on both levels of the renovated building, and she wanted to be able to guide patrons to the right section of books when they asked without getting lost.

With this in mind, Marinette finished her reheated croque monsieur and ventured off to explore. There were still forty minutes left of her break according to the new watch on her wrist — plenty of time to acquaint herself with the building.

The children’s area was downstairs, a colorful section full of picture books, games, movies, audiobooks, and bright-colored bean bag chairs. It wasn’t as full as it usually was, the children’s librarian said, but on weekends especially there were dozens of children and parents at a time filling the area.

On the far side of the basement was the young adult area. It hadn’t been renovated along with the rest of the building, and the gray shelves of books, old video games, DVDs, and three comic books looked unappealing to Marinette, and apparently to the rest of the young adult population, as there was only one person in the area. They sat in the lone, wooden chair by the poster advertising the youth group’s fall meeting schedule, looking at something on their laptop.

Marinette squinted as she made out the lone tuft of white hair on top of the visitor’s head. At least they’re young at heart, she thought with a shrug.

Back upstairs, there were three big rooms and one smaller one, with a central area where the laptop and computer desks sat, as well as the circulation desk, several sofas, and wood tables with cushioned chairs. Then, the three larger connected rooms — the North room held the nonfiction area, the West held fiction, and the East room had everything from large print to a kindle station to an open dictionary.

The last room Marinette visited was the smallest. It had a red carpet, large south-facing windows, a wooden globe atop a low shelf of foreign-language books, and a small, one-sided shelf of old, leather books facing the sun. On the other side of the shelf, there was a lone, wooden table in front of one red velvet chair.

Marinette walked around the room, gave the globe a couple spins, and stood by the central shelf to examine the books. A golden metal sign on it read that these were part of a special collection, and were not able to be checked out, although anyone could read them while within the library. They’d been donated by the Bourgeois family at the start of the library’s usage, and had remained there ever since.

But there weren’t any more librarians in the Bourgeois family; they had moved on to politics halfway through the last century and hadn’t looked back. Marinette supposed they were happy being richer, but a single library donation in the 1800s wasn’t enough charity work to persuade her to vote for Mayor Bourgeois in the upcoming election.

Marinette looked closer at the collection of books. Was it just her, or did it look like the old books were rusting? Small piles of red dust sat at the edges of the shelves, and the spines of many of the books were cracked, allowing her to see the threads that were binding them together.

She gingerly picked a book off the shelf, noting the cloud of dust it created; the way the spine threatened to crack in two at her touch; the brittle, yellow pages; and, with a look of disgust, the way it seemed to instantly suck all the moisture from her skin.

She immediately put the book back. Her hands were now covered in red dust from the cover.

Marinette rubbed her fingertips together, trying to get the dust off, but it seemed to have sunk deep into the lines of her skin.

Wonderful.

Marinette headed to the bathroom and washed her hands (and then washed them again when the dust didn’t come off the first time). Her break was almost over, anyway, so she might as well head back to the desk. Before she did, she stopped in the South room one more time, looking for the name of the book’s publisher so she could know who was responsible for her mishap.

The Journals of Adrien Agreste, vol. 3, read the half-attached spine of the book, which apparently had no publisher and was more of a diary than anything else.

Well, who would put that in a library? Marinette wondered. No wonder you can’t check it out. The first thing anyone would do with it after they left the building would be toss it in the trash just to spare future patrons.

And she walked back to the desk, taking long, confident strides and silently cursing this Adrien person for writing in books that would fall apart so easily. She wouldn’t be returning to that room anytime soon.

_-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_ _-*-_

Excerpt from the eighth journal of Adrien Agreste, written in Munich, Bavaria, on the fourth of November 1809.

Being an Orphan is less tragic than one might expect. It puts me in good company, and it guarantees a kind of Sympathy from most people I meet. Emphasizing the sorrowful Look of a young Orphan helped me secure many a meal when I was younger and traveling, often Alone, back to Plagg’s cave after my parents’ death. Nevertheless, when I am by myself, I am struck by the Guilt and Sorrow I felt on the day I lost them… Some wounds take too long to heal.

Since to the best of my Memory I have never written about the Disaster before in these journals, I suppose I should put it here. It wouldn’t do to let it be forgotten, after all, and it may aid me in recalling the Dangers of Blå Jungfrun, the destination of this journey.

My mother’s Spirit was more adventurous than my father’s; the voyage to Blå Jungfrun was her Idea. There used to be a circle of Mages on the island, but an inhospitable Darkness drove them out. My mother wanted to see if, since much Time had passed since then, the island was safe once more, and she planned to do this using her Talent. My father was against the idea at first, arguing that neither of them had the ability to use Magic, only to detect and defend it through their Talents.

At that time, it was unknown to me that I had a Mage’s Gift, not the simpler Talent my parents had. They were afraid of the dangers Mages face, and tried to spare me from Harm by holding the knowledge of my magic back from me. Untrained as I was, I could not even sense Magic, and I was completely dependent on my parents to sniff out Curses and other Evils for me. My father mentioned this, too, but my mother was unswayed.

To her sensible mind, the Talents of my parents were more than enough to protect themselves and me from lurking Dangers. And no-one had visited Blå Jungfrun in nearly a century. Whatever Darkness once lived there, it had nothing to sustain it. Surely, it must be dead, she told my father.

Wanting to please his wife, and trusting in her own trust, he agreed to take me to Blå Jungfrun, island of the Blue Maiden.

The journey through Sweden was pleasant from what I remember. There are two groups of Mages in the South of that country, Ravlunda’s group being the largest. I plan to stop there on my own journey, which I pray will not be as ill-fated as my parents’ was.

Departing for Blå Jungfrun from Oskarshamn, my parents took a small boat, protected by Charms given to them by the Mages of Ravlunda. I went with them, and my clothes were similarly protected by Charms for extra safety, while my parents did not wear charms on theirs. There was one Mage from Oskarshamn who came with us, and she had the foresight to wear already-charmed clothing. That is how she and I escaped from the Dark Island.

The Island itself is nothing special. There are trees and rocks covering a large hill, which is otherwise barren. The locals have long feared that place, and call it the Mountain of Witches. They are not far off, except in time, since the Mages have long abandoned it.

The Ocean’s strange waves had floated the Boat a little way from the Shore; since there was no dock to tie our boat to, this had been expected. My parents and the Mage waded out to the boat where I still was, having spent less than five minutes on Shore, and that is when the Darkness struck.

It had sensed our Presence, and gathered into a Storm, fully visible even to me, and too powerful to be banished by the Mage. It was all she could do to keep the boat, and me in it, afloat as it threatened to capsize and was pulled still further out. By now my parents had to swim, their feet unable to touch ground under the water, and the Mage as well. I was frightened and did not know what to do, though I strove with all my might to row the boat back to my parents, and all the while the Darkness was growing until at last a Tendril reached out from the storm and dragged my mother fully under the waves.

My father dove in after her, thinking to save her, as the Mage climbed into the boat and cast a protective Spell just strong enough to create a sphere of safety in the Storm. We searched and searched as the Storm raged on, hoping to find my parents resurfaced, or to see their forms in the water and haul them into the Boat. But they were forever lost to the Darkness. We never found them, and for our own safety, the Mage determined that we must head away from the Island, which was the only place the Darkness seemed to draw power from.

I went back to Plagg’s cave, which is hidden in the Harz mountains, and stayed with the Mages there until I was old enough to take up my parents’ mission and travel again, recording the Darkness, keeping peace between Mages as their countries went to war again and again, and eventually learning of the Magic that was hidden inside me.

I have been lucky enough to take lessons from Plagg himself during his visits to the Cave, however impossible to understand and often of little help to a peaceful traveler like myself said Lessons are.

But now, if the Darkness is spreading, then I will need all the spells he taught me and more.

As I set out to the Blue Maiden, I plan for my journey to be a slow one. This is only in part due to the Ocean not being safe during winter. I will stay in Bavaria for a while and take lessons from the Mages of Mullo. Then I will move on to Leipzig and Berlin, should the fighting (for there is always War now) allow it, and finally to Świnoujście and from there to Sweden. Along the way, I hope to gather a small group of stout-hearted Mages to aid me in my Fight.

I must take the Time to carefully prepare to face whatever twisted Mage is at the heart of this Darkness, for I grow ever surer that there is one. Darkness does not move on its own, but it relies on Servants to work for it.

Let those Servants beware, for if I find them, I will not show them Mercy.