The chamber within was a perfect circle – a wide stone staircase had been built against the sides, spiraling all the way up into the darkness high above our heads. Iron candelabras were seated on the steps at intervals, the self-lighting candles creating an eerie glow and sweeping shadows that spread across the room. It was impossible to see the actual walls because every inch of them had been turned into bookshelves that were crammed with dusty, identical books. They were filmed with thick cobwebs and some were falling apart, their pages slipping free from their old bindings. All were the exact same size and brownish colour. Thousands upon thousands of the same thing – as if a mad collector had gathered up every single printed version of a single book that had ever existed. A sinking feeling curled through my stomach as I looked around at the almost infinite number of tomes that were laid out in front of us. How the hell are we supposed to find what we’re looking for here?
