She stood on a mezzanine overlooking a dark wood—a forest of ornate shelves, laid out like a garden maze. And on each shelf stood books. Piles of books. Mountains of books. Oceans and oceans of books. Books of stained vellum and fresh parchment. Books bound in leather and wood and leaves, locked books and dusty books, books as thick as her waist and as tiny as her fist. Mia’s eyes were alight, fingernails denting the wooden railing. “Naev, don’t let me down there,” she breathed. “Why not?” “You’ll never see me again…”
