LexyEevee

Lexy thumbed through the pages of...  what was it now?  Ha, like he didn't know.  The two thousand, seven hundred, forty-ninth book.  He'd gotten pretty sick of this fox around book five, and hadn't put much effort into skimming them after book four hundred twelve.  Between the obvious fool's errand, the intolerably smarmy demeanor of his host, and the suspicious number of books stamped with text like PROPERTY OF STEEL CITY LIBRARY, Lexy was hours past the point of needing to deliver a few lessons in social grace and bibliosophistry upside the head.  But this Callahan fellow had clearly spoken to Caldera since that overnight story-telling ses

Third aisle from the left (facing from the door), down two sections.  Climb the ladder left there since last week to the second level of inner shelves.  Take the bridge across to the first aisle, then hop (carefully!) to the makeshift wooden catwalk jutting out from the wall shelves.  Follow it around a bit further, hop in the bucket hanging in midair, untie the rope from its bollard.  Pull carefully, up five more levels.  Mental note to oil the squeaking pulley.  Anchor the rope, lean just far enough out to the right, and...  yes!  The book just barely reached the conspicuous empty space, and a careful digit pressed the spine inwards until i

ZERO The clock, the clock, the blasted clock.  It wouldn't stop ticking. Entirely by design, granted—it was the perfect timepiece, after all.  But on late nights like this one, with a wandering mind and nobody else in the spacious library save for his insubstantial assistant, the lone sound of one metallic tick after another started to get to him.  Sometimes he thought he could feel his keen ears twitching along with the rhythm. Lexy breathed out a heavy sigh (partly just to hear something, anything else) and slumped back in his chair, away from the jumble of books on his desk.  He'd finished her errand days ago, and had kept quiet as

A lone figure crept through the shadows. The caution was largely unwarranted; this was a distant corner of the castle, far from the hustle and bustle of the staff, in fact the last hallway in the western wing.  On the off chance someone were around, this particular hallway was still plenty dark enough for a hasty retreat.  Only a scant few torches dotted the walls, one at each bend or curve along the twisty passageway, their feeble glow barely reaching the cobblestone floor below.  The decor would have better suited a forgotten dungeon. On the other hand, the figure knew all too well who owned this castle—and what she did