Ranamak had come to Sunder to advise on construction, and never got around to leaving. He had all the skills that Sunderites valued: strength, experience and affability. He was a simple fellow with a fine knowledge of mining so most locals agreed that he was the perfect leader.
After twenty years, most of Sunder City was still satisfied with Ranamak’s service. Business was booming. The trade roads were busy and everyone’s pockets were filling up. It was only the Governor himself who believed his leadership was lacking.
Ranamak had traveled the world and he knew that Sunder was in danger of becoming obsessed with production and profit while overlooking the other areas of life. He feared that the culture of the city was being neglected and wanted to find a way to give Sunder City a soul. In the midst of his struggles, he met someone who existed completely outside the realms of productivity.
Sir William Kingsley was a controversial character at the time; the disgraced son of a proud Human family, William turned away from his duties in favor of a nomadic life. He read, he ate, he wrote and he practiced the oft-reviled art of philosophy.
Kingsley came to Sunder spreading poems and ideas, and somehow he found his way to Ranamak’s table. Legend says that sometime between their fourth and fifth bottle of wine, Sir William Kingsley was appointed Sunder City’s first Minister of Theater and Arts.
Over the next three years, taxes were raised to cover the cost of Kingsley’s creations: an amphitheater, a dance hall and an art gallery. He funded the Ministry of Education and History, which went about building the museum. Ranamak and Kingsley transformed Sunder from a workplace to a vibrant metropolitan city over a handful of years. Then, a mob of angry taxpayers brutally murdered them because of it.
These days, Sunderites all seem to hold the same opinion of the event: it had to happen, they’d gone too far, but the Kingsley years made the city what it is today and everyone is proud of what they accomplished.
On the anniversary of his assassination, to honor his service, the people of Sunder built the Sir William Kingsley Library, a grand redwood building perched on a small rise at the eastern end of town. A short uphill walk revealed a bronze statue of mighty Sir William himself. He was a round-faced, jolly-looking fellow with no hair. In one hand was a book, in the other a bottle of wine. Beneath the statue was a plaque with the iconic verse from his most famous poem, The Wayfarers:
The spark will breed the fire,
And the fire take the track.
We move forward through the mire,
But we can’t go back.
The library was one of a few wooden buildings that had survived Sunder’s habit of unexpected combustion. Before the Coda, while the fires were still flowing, the pits ensured free heating and energy for every member of the population as long as you didn’t mind a portion of the city going up in smoke once in a while.
The isolated position of the library had kept it safe. Mostly. Nearby flames had warped the timber frontage with enough heat to streak the golden brown with charcoal black. There was a dated charm to the stained-glass windows, arched frames and pointed spire; it was strangely spiritual for a place designed to house old books.
I like books. They’re quiet, dignified and absolute. A man might falter but his words, once written, will hold.
The large doors slid open with the sound of a yawning bear and the chalky aroma of old paper filled my nostrils.
The interior of the library looked more like someone’s private collection than a public building. The aisles had been shaped to accentuate the architecture of the room, creating an intricate labyrinth where no path went where you thought it would. I would have happily spent the day foraging for the perfect paperback to stuff into my back pocket but, for a change, I had a job to do.
It was clear that the rest of the city didn’t share my passion for the library. Only after strolling through the winding bookcases did I find the sole occupant crouched down in one of the aisles. The librarian was in her early thirties, dressed in a navy cardigan and gray slacks. We were around the same age, though time had treated her like fine wine and me like milk left out in the sun. A braid of brown hair dropped down the length of her back, and her skin was freckled caramel. She saw me approach and smiled with lips you could throw to a drowning sailor.
“Well, you must be the Principal’s errand boy.” She stood up and we shook hands. Her fingers were long and thin and wrapped around mine entirely. They were fingers made for witchcraft.
“Fetch Phillips,” I said. “How do you know I’m not a patron?”
“I know a drinker when I see one. If the sun’s on the way down and there isn’t a glass in your hand, I’d bet good money that you’re on the job.”
The girl was double-smart: book and street. I thought all those flowers had been picked from this garden.
“This is one hell of a building. You been here long?”
“Ten years,” she said, letting her fingers slide from my wrist. “Through fire, Coda and Vampire.”
“Which was the worst?”
“You really want to know that, Soldier?” She gave me a look that was full of knowing but free from blame, then brushed past my shoulder and down the aisle. “It certainly wasn’t Ed. At first, I was just happy to have the company, but it didn’t take me long to realize how lucky I was that we’d crossed paths. The Professor is undoubtedly the most intelligent creature I’ve ever met. Come on. I’ll show you to his room.”
She led me through a narrow passage of books towards a ladder that rested against the back wall. It stretched up past the romance section to a hole in the roof.
“Go ahead.”
I placed my foot on the first rung, and the ladder shifted on the floorboards.
“You’re not coming?”
“Of course. But you’re wearing a jacket and I’m wearing tight trousers. I imagine a decent fellow would offer to lead the way.”
I nodded my head, grinned like an idiot and started the climb. The ladder gave a shake when she followed behind me.
“The old man climbed up here every day?” I asked.
“Not quickly, and not without groaning, but he always said the exercise did him good.”
I assisted the librarian off the ladder and on to a small landing. From there, I had the opportunity to admire the intricacy of the room’s design. Bookcases curved and flowed into every corner like the roots of an unruly tree. The filing system must have been a nightmare.
The Witch’s long fingers pushed open a door to reveal a large loft-space built above the ceiling. She ducked her head beneath the arch of the doorway and walked me into the sun-drenched room.
We paused, adjusting to the afternoon light that spilled in all around us. The sides of the room were more window than wall. Outside, the sky was cloudy but the reflected glare still burned my hungover eyes.
“Originally, this floor wasn’t here and the skylights flooded the entire building. It turned out that the sun was damaging the books so they built this platform to keep it out. When Edmund saw it, he asked if he could move in.”
“This is the home of a Vampire?”
The bedroom was a bright world without shadows. Spacious and circular with an extravagant bed in the center and low, wooden shelves on every wall.
“It’s the blood,” she said.
“What is?”