I caress the spine, cracked and aging, and pull the book from the shelf. The musty scent irritates my nose. A part of the old cover flakes off and flutters to the carpet. Poor thing. Another victim of time, and barely a survivor from last year’s flood. Water spots stain the yellowing pages as I turn them, accusing and injured. No, fire isn’t the only threat to paper. I close the book and place it on the cart. It’ll receive a facelift, just like the others on my list. The water stains will remain, and the pages can never return to white, but a new cover will protect it. I touch the spine again, the title worn off from years of use, and try to imagine what this book was like when first bound. If only I had power like Gandalf’s, maybe I could make the pages pristine again. “Leda?” Fran’s voice is loud in the library’s hushed expanse, like the booming voice of the Wizard of Oz. Even my breath is intrusive to the silence. “Yes?” She walks between the stacks, tapping her watch.
