CHAPTER 3 – Only a Book’s Throw Away

Earlier, I said there were five moments that defined Saphienne. The first was when Kylantha was snatched from her arms; this was by far the saddest moment. Four more yet remain to be told, and it may please you to hear that they are altogether quite different in character. The next is not too much further, though there is one more fact about Saphienne you must first learn. Perhaps you have already guessed? Let us see.

Studying under Filaurel would prove interesting for Saphienne, but on the first day, when she picked up the coin and squinted at its face and composed herself for her return to the library, it was not excitement that carried her across the threshold. She was very afraid of what she would see when she entered — or what she would not see. She expected that she would feel Kylantha’s absence and relive the memory. Only, another memory of her friend helped her inside.

Saphienne was very surprised, then, to see that the shelves of the library had been entirely rearranged since she had last visited. Never before had she seen them moved, and the novelty stopped her by the doorway as she tried to think it through. Even the tall curtains by the windows were different, as were the cushions on the sills below them. For a moment, she felt as though she was in an entirely different library.

Filaurel, she realised, must have spent the past two days reorganising the collection.

Perhaps, so that Saphienne would feel more comfortable.

But that thought seemed foolish to her. Who would put that much effort into making her feel better? Even her own mother wouldn’t inconvenience herself that greatly.

Filaurel was examining returned books next to her desk. She paid no notice to Saphienne until the young elf walked over, at which point she set the books down and gave her a polite nod. “Follow me, then.”

At the back of the library was a closed door, behind which were stairs that wound upward to the next floor. Saphienne had never been upstairs, and she climbed them with growing curiosity. There were no doors at the top, and she emerged into brighter light to discover–

“There’s another collection?!”

Filaurel was amused. “What did you think was up here, Saphienne?”

The shelves were twice as tall, with ladders on wheels neatly arranged at the end of every other row. Overhead, the roof curved upwards, and large, glass skylights revealed the rest of the tree from which the building grew, along with the branches of the even taller trees, and the bright, cloudy sky beyond. Saphienne stared, bewildered. “I thought… that this was where you lived…”

The librarian laughed, a high and playful sound. “No, this is the mature collection.”

“Mature?”

“For adults. That is,” she hastened to add, “containing subject matter that is not appropriate for elves under the age of fourteen. Which is not to say that it’s all scandalous. Most is actually quite boring, just not the sort of knowledge that should be available without supervision.”

“But,” Saphienne objected, turning back to her, “I thought the adult books were toward the back of the… um, lower collection?”

“The area for young children is near my desk so I can watch them. Downstairs is otherwise arranged by the difficulty of reading level. The reading level rises the further back you go, until it then becomes arranged by subject.” She gestured to the small, metal plates screwed onto the ends of the shelves. “Up here, everything is arranged by subject. There’s also a reading area, for anyone who wants peace from the children. Present company excepted, of course.”

This was all a little much for Saphienne, who tried to take a seat on the steps of one of the ladders, then jumped upright when it moved slightly. “…But I’m too young to be up here.”

“Saphienne the child, though a voracious reader, is far too young to be up here.” Filaurel smiled as she walked over and tapped a wheel with her foot, engaging the brake. “Saphienne my assistant, wise beyond her years, is just the right age to be trusted. So long as,” she added, “you show me whatever you take from these shelves, and promise to trust me should I ask you to wait a little longer.”

“Why? Why do you trust me, I mean.”

Her smile became fainter. “As of recently, you understand that there are some things which are simply too much for children. You are still a child, but I think you understand. I’m not trying to clip your wings–”

“My wings?”

“A human expression. They clip the flight feathers from the wings of birds to stop them flying far from the nest; to keep them imprisoned.” She coughed. “As I was saying, I’m not trying to hold you back. If I say something is too much, I’m trying to spare you, until you’re ready. And I know you’re ready for more than downstairs.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Saphienne, I was younger than you when I started stealing books I wasn’t supposed to read. Who do you think left ‘The Principles of Elven Anatomy’ among the travel tales for you to find? Did you think I didn’t notice you sneaking it out, stuck between half a dozen larger books?”

Bright red, Saphienne studied the carpet.

“I know you hear it said a lot, but: you’re part of a very long tradition. Reading what you’re not supposed to is a rite of passage for anyone with a decent mind.”

“So… what does your assistant do?”

“That depends,” Filaurel grinned, “on the strength of your calligraphy. Do you have nice handwriting?”

* * *

She did, as a matter of fact. Filaurel nevertheless had her practice for two hours every day, and held her to a much higher standard than was usual for a child. Regardless of what she would one day choose as her art, being able to write well and quickly was a skill worth developing, and laid the groundwork for learning to take notes. That came next, the librarian having Saphienne read and summarise increasingly more complicated books, first nonfiction and then whole novels. Filaurel would read her summaries and ask detailed questions, questions that became more thoughtful and required greater reflection the longer the practice went on.

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Autumn turned to winter, and then winter to spring. The librarian taught her student how the collection was catalogued, and then how to spot books in need of repair. Two hours practicing calligraphy, one hour working on the summary of the week, one hour touring the shelves assigned to her while checking for misplaced books and worn bindings; this is what Saphienne spent every day doing.

As well as reading for, oh, about seven to twelve hours a day. Filaurel had to make her go outside — to eat, to take in the fresh air, and sometimes, to bathe.