#soooooft

But as you pass the door, he’s leaning out, calling apologetically. “It seems you are in want of a good book, gentle wanderer. The volume you were sizing up is indeed a fine choice.” You might just harden, wave him off and pass by, but now that the door is half-cracked, there’s the whisper of a pull to enter the shop. There’s also something warm in his tone, a fringeling twang that you’re a sucker for, something you don’t hear often on Kassiot.

“Ah, thank you. I was just looking.”

“I could see that. You were looking, but you were also wanting. How many times have you passed by this establishment and fought within your fine person the want to come in and explore?”

He...has an eccentric way of speaking that you find both fascinating and a bit of a red flag. If you stop for a conversation, you might find yourself trapped with someone you can’t nicely break away from. But you also can’t resist a character and make the decision to engage with thinly veiled amusement.

“How do you know this isn’t my first time seeing this shop?”

“Well, I could answer that, but it might betray the amount of time I spend looking out of windows.”

“Hm. Sounds like a lot.”

“Enough to notice.”

Wait. What does that mean? Has this guy been watching you? Is it time to get confrontational? “Yeah? What have you noticed.”

“It is the nature of the human beast to detect the gaze of a face that turns their way, as yours does toward these windows ‘most every afternoon. You’re the one whose eyes linger when her feet will not. But today, they did. And here you are.”

Something in this sincere, poetic reflection softens you, tugs at you. Like he hears a yearning within that you thought was quieter than it was. But it’s not his job to analyze you. It’s his job to sell his wares. 

“Honestly...I love books. I do. I just...it’s a luxury I can’t afford right now. And this is just the kind of shop I think would ruin me.” You look up to the sign--The Queen’s Lair--and behind him to the dark wood paneling and high ceilings and chaotic but tightly-packed shelves, exactly the type of shop you’d wrap around yourself for comfort, but would feel guilty about spending hours in without buying anything.

The man smiles again, this time not so crooked, but it crinkles his eyes and throws a light into them. “Well then, you’re in luck! We have a traders and borrower’s policy here--nobody should go without a story in their clutch if they are in need.” He steps out to open the door for you, and it’s here that you notice his right sleeve is neatly folded and pinned up over a missing arm. “If you would be so kind.”

You might have said no. But he’s the one asking your favor, asking to be the one to serve you, with that dialect and some kind of rough charm…. And so you step in.

It’s exactly as you feared, dense rows to get lost in, narrow passages weaving back Kevva knows how far, wandering paths lined with books from floor to heaven, shelves higher than can be reached. But above that, the ceiling is painted deep blue with gold stars.

He notices you gasp a little at the detail. “My niece’s embellishment. Insisted on it. Enchanting, are they not? You’ll want to step over this way. I’ll ask you to mind the stacks, if you would.”

You barely hear your footsteps on the floor as the space is so muffled, so softly deadened of all harsh noises by the masses of bound paper all around you, nothing but the welcome creaks of the wooden floorboards. There’s something in the air that’s giving off a clean smell over all the leather and old paper, something of fresh--you spy jars of fillianweed in some of the corners and on shelves. Of course. Filianweed is poisonous to book mites. Lightly fragrant and useful. The little jars stuffed all around give the shop a bit of an arcane apothecary feel.

He leads you over to a small side room of the store with books stacked up in piles on the floor, the shelves mostly empty but with a few loose volumes haphazardly thrown on. Looks like he’s in the middle of a re-shelving project here. You’re barely able to squeeze in next to him, a little closer than you’d like, being that you seem to be the only two in the shop. He’s a large-ish man, a little backwater roughness in him, but he doesn’t come off as untrustworthy. In fact, you feel oddly safe around him. He’s not what you would expect in a place like this. Seems too sturdy. Built for harder labor. Which, you suppose, could be lifting and staking books after all.

His voice brings you back to the matter at hand.

“This is the kipper’s room,” he gestures to the piles, “I hope you’ll forgive its not-so-temporary disorder. Volumes tend to come and go fairly regularly here and I have not had the time or help of late to make it more presentable. But you’re welcome to skitter things around at your discretion.” He picks up an impressive amount of books with his one broad hand and plops them on a shelf, uncovering a paperback that he grabs and wags at you, gesturing as he speaks. “Initiates can take a book from this room free of charge. If I never see it again, well, that’s on me. But you can return it for trade or bargaining. You do that enough times, and I’ll discount a newer model for you. You bring in more, well, then we’ll have a spirited conversation regarding worthwhile compensation.”

“Really? You just...give books away.”

“Well, if you can learn to look past an inelegant cover, you just might find something tender inside. As you can see, many of these are well-loved and worth more for their stories than for their looks. Hard to sell. Probably been on many a freighter trip. But a book’s a book. I’m not going to turn one away to the scrap heap if it means another soul might find some comfort in it. Now if it’s the one you’re pining for in the window, I don’t currently have that particular story on loan at the moment, but this one,” he hands you the paperback, tapping a finger on the cover, “may be on the same cue. Little mystery, little adventure, but a bit more of a...ripened theme. It’s got a hell of a love story will knock you back on your softer sections.”

You feel your stomach twist and you breathe out a nervous laugh to cover it. “Oh no. Thanks. Ah...I can’t do anything with romance right now.”

He’s quiet for a second, his eyes sinking into the slightest sad squint as his bottom lip purses his mouth and mustache up. Damn. That was revealing too much and now this peculiar man is pitying you. I don’t know you, sir, please don’t ask questions…..

But just as you’re about to backpedal and make unsteady excuses, he quickly lifts the book away in as much motion now as he was stock still just moments ago. “Okay. Then may I suggest--” he bobs his head searching a couple of stacks before grabbing and moving a few handfuls off one to uncover a smaller, less worn book. “This one starts off on an amorous note, but let me assure you, the man is a scoundrel and it does not take long for the heroine to kick him cleanly aside and find a more heartening adventure.”

The book fits into your hands like it was made for you to read. The Shillytern. The blue cover just shows a picture of a fairy tern, a tiny bird native to Kassiot, one that can fly over oceans without rest, but makes its nests in high places, building them out of rare purple bellflowers. There’s an old Kassiot song about a fairy tern that grows tired of purple flowers and flies out over the ocean to find those of pure white, never to be seen again. Rather than assume the bird has died, the lyrics imagine that she triumphantly finds a land of white flowers and better mates. An old classic for heartbroken lovers. Fly away, shillytern, go follow your heart’s desire. You haven’t seen a fairy tern or heard that song since you were a child and the picture twists a nostalgic dial within you. Happier memories. A means of escape.

You nod. This is the one you’ll take. “Do I need to fill out a loan card or something?”

He throws his head back just a little, his smile cocky enough to hold pride that he’s picked out the right book for you, but also kind--he’s happy to have been of service. “Not at all. Just need your name.” His voice is low and soothing; for someone who just met you, he genuinely seems to care and know that you’re not having the best day. He holds out his hand to you. 

If you can learn to look past an inelegant cover, you just might find something tender inside.

You slip yours within his. But not with your opposite as in a handshake. Something grateful comes over you and you take his hand like a friend and squeeze it, give him your name and thank him, surprising yourself with this strangely intimate and awkward gesture in this cramped space. 

His hand is warm and dry from handling books, it circles yours greedily, burying it, dwarfing it within his sturdy fingers. You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. But you don’t care because this man magically appeared out of nowhere and just gave you something you didn’t even realize you desperately needed today. Just a small thing, just a book, the hint of a memory, the promise of a little tranquility, the invitation to enter an environment that closes around you like a warm hug and smells like a long ago you’ve never seen.

He chuckles softly and squeezes back. “Name’s Ezra. And I am more than delighted that we’ve found something to your liking, but I’ll be needing the book to mark it with a loan stamp.”

“Oh.” Of course. The book. That heat in your cheeks shifts to a different kind of embarrassment as you realize now what he was actually reaching for. “Sorry.” Shit. Now who’s the weirdo here.

“No need for atonements, gentle friend. Far be it from me to turn down a gesture of connection or kindness from one who gives it in sincerity, nor from one who seems to crave its return.” Ezra’s keen eyes search your own before he nods his head around you in the direction you came in from and the rest of him follows, stepping over a short tower of books so as not to crowd you as he moves through the passage. “Front desk’s this way.”

He’s an odd mix of arresting stillness and sporadic energy, mirroring both the quiet atmosphere and visually busy aesthetic of the shop. If you’d laid in bed after waking and had to guess what twisting turning kind of a day you’d have, you never could have written this plot. The stinging slap of the transmission from your ex. The low morning. The burned toast. And then the moment you zoned out on your way to the markets, it brought you this little adventure with this strange character and his wondrous shop. 

As he fumbles with the balance of opening the back cover and placing the stamp one-handed, you avert your eyes back to the painted stars overhead.

“Is this shop yours then?”

“It is. Bought and branded. The whole caboodle.”

“Huh. So is there a second floor?”

“There is, but it is devoid of books. That is where I lay my head at the end of a day tending to them.”

“You live upstairs? I didn’t think this sector was zoned for living quarters.”

“Squatters rights. You privately buy and sell on a piece of land, you have a right to sleep on it as well. All the enterprises on this street enjoy that little luxury.” He taps the spine of the book on the counter to get your attention. “Your paper fantasy awaits. Treat her like you love her.”

The little book passes reverently from his hand to yours, your thumb catching the back cover to peek at the insignia marked there--a classic English Q with an integrated L surrounded by little stars. “Must be nice, living above a bookshop,” you muse. “If you can’t sleep, you just have to come downstairs and grab a story to help.”

His dark eyes read you, judging your own set of strangeness, as if nobody else would point that out. Surely it’s not a unique thought. He must get that all the time.

“It does have its perks.”

There’s that stillness again as he watches you benignly, warmly, as you examine the paperback. Nothing more to say. The transaction is complete, he’s done his job, got you in the door and a book in your hands. Although, it’s not like there was a profit or currency exchange. Just a… an exchange of… what? Time? Kindness? You’re suddenly a little overwhelmed by it, sorry you’d resisted at the beginning.

“Well. Thank you. Ezra. It's nice to have a place to…” You gesture generically to your surroundings. “I’ll be sure to come back to exchange it.”

“I have no doubt. I anticipate it and look forward to your thoughts on it. No need to be carrying a book to step through that door. The shop is always welcome to wanderers. The novels like to be surveyed from time to time, and I would not mind the company in the quieter hours.”

You suddenly notice how still the shop is, the way the dust rides the sunlight, undisturbed. You’ve seen more people here, seen folks step aside at the door as someone entering makes way for a patron exiting with an armful of books. There must be little pockets of slow periods like this, and you can imagine him tooling around the shelves, dusting, replacing the jars of fillianweed, lazily stocking and rearranging...even staring out the window in thought. You bet he whistles... If he’s inviting company, that means he must run the place by himself.

“Do you… need anything?” You ask before you even know what you mean.

Ezra’s head tips back as he looks down at you in amusement, and his body leans forward, his elbow on the counter. “That is a simple question with many complicated answers could fill several afternoons and easily keep me from my vocation.”

It’s the first time you’ve genuinely smiled today. “I mean. It seems you work on your own here. Do you need...I don’t know. Can I run and get you some lunch or something? A coffee?”

The crooked grin from earlier returns. “I do appreciate the offer. But I assure you that for today at least, I am wholly content.” 

Weirdly on cue, the door opens and an older man totters in, grizzled and greying, carrying a paper bag smelling of something freshly grilled. “Hey Ez,” he coughs and grumbles, setting the bag on the counter as you back off to give him clearance. “Brought your order. Ma says hello and wonders if you have that new Caldwell novel.”

“I believe I do. I’ll return with it shortly.” A short nod and a small smile float your way before Ezra disappears between the stacks.

It takes a moment to adjust back to the warm sunlight and the sound of insects when you reach the street. Where were you going? Supply market for parts. Farmer’s stall to see what’s available for fresh vegetation. FrieghterPost...that’s right, there’s a paper transmit in your pocket, an angry message back to your ex. Hmm. Scratch the FrieghterPost. You’re only half the heartbroken you were this morning, and a lot less angry for sure; you’ll just recycle the paper when you get home. The book fits nicely in your jacket pocket as you head off toward the market, hardly weighing you down at all. In fact, you couldn’t feel lighter in your heart and on your feet. Day’s taking a better turn after all.

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Chapter 2: Has a Glow in It -->

I’d just like you to squee over this wonderful illustration Maia did of our boy and the bookshop:

Illustration by @mjpens Original post can be found here at here.