Ruinous Creatures

I love the brightness of the little library off the great hall. Windows above the shelves let in brilliant streams of light, and the darker corners have lanterns for yet more. It smells of oranges and some herb I can’t quite place, and if there is a speck of dust to be found, it is hiding well.

In the center of the room, at a table so large that you can barely scoot around it to access the shelves, sits Cecelia.

Despite her small size, Cecelia takes up space, especially here. Maybe it is the fact that she appears utterly in her element, surrounded by half-unrolled scrolls, piles of books, and almost as many piles of scribbled-on parchment and papers. Her own chaotic notes.

She’s currently flipping back and forth in a massive illustrated manuscript. It must be very old, because the colors swirl on the page—something jackalope-wearers used to do, but haven’t been able to access in a hundred years or so.