09-15-2020, 06:37 PM
Yet more wood comprised the bulk of the library: a floor (dusty) with geometric inlays; bookshelves on whose shoulders rested a heavy coffered ceiling. The Reaches looked like a mantel-mounted Dickensville model from the outside, but inside it was like a coffin -- if pine boxes weren’t a quaint anachronism, who could be sure? Near had declined the opportunity to attend Courtland’s funeral, and his dead friends tended toward cheap cremation or just disappearing and saving everyone the trouble.
Courtland had been protective of his library and its denizens, rows of god-knew-how-many books, leather-bound and musty and likely worth something to someone somewhere. The door had been kept locked more often than not, which Near knew because one of the best ways to make an eight year-old want to get into a place was to tell him that he wasn’t supposed to be there. (Good thing nobody had demanded he stay out of the “Ritual Room” ...) Twenty years later, stepping inside without supervision still set off a little thrill of childish insurgence, even though it was only, after all, a bunch of books in a stuffy room.
A bunch of books and one Jude draped over a chair, and what was Near doing, anyway, trying to get the kid drunk? What did he think was going to come of it? He shook his head. Didn’t matter at this point. Boers and Kaffirs, said Daddy’s message, and if there was any clarification to be had, here wasn't a bad place to start looking for it.
“Did he let you come in here?” he asked, scanning shelves instead of watching Jude’s face. “I wasn’t supposed to. He thought I’d shit on his Audubon or something, I don’t know. I mean -- how long have you been hanging around here anyway?”
Courtland had been protective of his library and its denizens, rows of god-knew-how-many books, leather-bound and musty and likely worth something to someone somewhere. The door had been kept locked more often than not, which Near knew because one of the best ways to make an eight year-old want to get into a place was to tell him that he wasn’t supposed to be there. (Good thing nobody had demanded he stay out of the “Ritual Room” ...) Twenty years later, stepping inside without supervision still set off a little thrill of childish insurgence, even though it was only, after all, a bunch of books in a stuffy room.
A bunch of books and one Jude draped over a chair, and what was Near doing, anyway, trying to get the kid drunk? What did he think was going to come of it? He shook his head. Didn’t matter at this point. Boers and Kaffirs, said Daddy’s message, and if there was any clarification to be had, here wasn't a bad place to start looking for it.
“Did he let you come in here?” he asked, scanning shelves instead of watching Jude’s face. “I wasn’t supposed to. He thought I’d shit on his Audubon or something, I don’t know. I mean -- how long have you been hanging around here anyway?”