There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[A bright and crisp mid-morning, June 8 (day 373)]
[At the library]

It is quite a lovely day; cool and crisp and not at all cold enough to ache. I was somewhat apprehensive about stepping outside yesterday, but the snow hardly seems to cause a slip at all. And as it seems to be here still, I suppose I should not get into the habit of letting it keep me inside.

I cannot bring by all the books I thought might be of use, of course, but I do manage to fit nearly a dozen into a string bag, and slip the handles over one shoulder. It is merely a matter of going carefully, and I make my way to the library without incident. Really, the trickiest part of it is knocking the snow off my boots before I enter.

I glance around as I come inside, not seeing anyone for the moment, and go to set the books down on the front desk. Mrs Stephanides is not in evidence, and neither is the senior librarian. (Come to think of it, I can't recall meeting her... well, I am sure I shall have the chance at some point.) "Hello?"

[Open]

Comments

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I suppose this is as good a place as any," she says, looking over the books; it is always a relief to find that someone you have just met can read. "I haven't seen Hermia today. I imagine she's out enjoying the weather with the rest of the town."

"It does seem to have drawn people outside," I say neutrally. She sounds a little distant; perhaps simply resentful about needing to work when most people have managed to get a little spare time. "Have you been at the library long?"

"You must have had a time getting here. Would you like to sit down?" she adds, and the pause after she speaks is the kind that leaves me wondering what she is--oh, of course.

"Yes, thank you," I say, patting the books once before moving away from the desk--they were hardly my favourites, after all, but I shall miss them. I look around again as I cross the room, and cannot help but smile; it really is a fine institution, although I have found that some of the shelves are unsteady; twice now I have been bruised by falling volumes. "Very kind of you," I say, leaning my crutch against the chair and lowering myself in. "Do pardon my absent-mindedness; Westin Sagert," I say, offering my hand.

[janeveniver.livejournal.com]

He asks me if I've been at the library long, and I frown, not so much at the question as at his phrasing. It seems a little odd. "I've been here a couple hours, I think. I tend to lose track of time reading." Usually. Not so much today.

He settles in the chair and introduces himself. I shake the hand he offers and tell him my name, doing my best not to stare at his injuries. I am very curious about what happened to him, but of course I can't ask. "Mr. Sagert, do you mind if I have a look at the books you brought?" I'm nearly as curious about them.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I've been here a couple hours, I think. I tend to lose track of time reading." Ah. I do hope my presumption was excusable.

"Certainly understandable," I say, smiling. "Given the opportunity, reading is one of the better ways to spend an hour."

"Mr. Sagert, do you mind if I have a look at the books you brought?"

"Oh, please do," I say, glancing to the pile of them. "I'm afraid they might be a bit dry--one or two works on matters of history, a romance, one that I found I happened to have two copies of..." I shrug at that last, slightly embarrassed, and leave off listing them. "I do try to manage my collection, but occasionally duplicates do creep in, I am afraid."