Wintersmith

were so old that the printing had been worn gray by the pressure of people’s eyeballs reading it.
    The librarians were mysterious. It was said they could tell what book you needed just by looking at you, and they could take your voice away with a word.
    But here they were searching the shelves for T. H. Mouse-holder’s famous book Survival in the Snow .
    Things were getting desperate. The oxen that pulled the wagon had broken their tethers and run off in the blizzard, the stove was nearly out, and worst of all, they were down to their last candles, which meant that soon they would not be able to read books.
    “It says here in K. Pierpoint Poundsworth’s Among the Snow Weasels that the members of the ill-fated expedition to Whale Bay survived by making soup of their own toes,” said Deputy Librarian Grizzler.
    “That’s interesting,” said Senior Librarian Swinsley, who was rummaging on the shelf below. “Is there a recipe?”
    “No, but there may be something in Superflua Raven’s book Cooking in Dire Straits . That’s where we got yesterday’s recipe for Nourishing Boiled Socks Surprise—” There was a thunderous knocking at the door. It was a two-part door that allowed only the top half to be opened, so that a ledge on the bottom half could be a sort of small desk for stamping books. Snow came through the crack as the knocking continued.
    “I hope that’s not the wolves again,” said Mr. Grizzler. “I got no sleep at all last night!”
    “Do they knock? We could check in The Habits of Wolves by Captain W. E. Lightly,” said Senior Librarian Swinsley, “or perhaps you could just open the door? Quickly! The candles are going out!”
    Grizzler opened the top half of the door. There was a tall figure on the steps, hard to see in the fitful, cloud-strained moonlight.
    “Ah’m lookin’ for Romance,” it rumbled.
    The Deputy Librarian thought for a moment, and then said, “Isn’t it a bit chilly out there?”
    “Aren’t ye the people wi’ all dem books?” the figure demanded.
    “Yes, indeed…oh, Romance! Yes, certainly!” said Mr. Swinsley, looking relieved. “In that case, I think you’ll want Miss Jenkins. Forward please, Miss Jenkins.”
    “It looks like youse is freezin’ in there,” said the figure. “Dem’s icicles hanging from der ceilin’.”
    “Yes. However, we have managed to keep them off the books,” said Mr. Swinsley. “Ah, Miss Jenkins. The, er, gentleman is looking for Romance. Your department, I think.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Miss Jenkins. “What kind of romance were you looking for?”
    “Oh, one wi’ a cover on, ye ken, and wi’ pages wi’ all wurdies on ’em,” said the figure.
    Miss Jenkins, who was used to this sort of thing, disappeared into the gloom at the other end of the wagon.
    “Dese scunners are total loonies!” said a new voice. It appeared to come from somewhere on the person of the dark book borrower, but much lower than the head.
    “Pardon?” said Mr. Swinsley.
    “Ach, nae problemo,” said the figure quickly. “Ah’m sufferin’ from a grumblin’ knee, ’tis an old trouble—”
    “Why don’t they be burnin’ all dem books, eh?” the unseen knee grumbled.
    “Sorry aboot this, ye know how knees can let a man doon in public, I’m a martyr to dis one,” said the stranger.
    “I know how it is. My elbow acts up in wet weather,” said Mr. Swinsley. There was some sort of fight going on in the nether regions of the stranger, who was shaking like a puppet.
    “That will be one penny,” Miss Jenkins said. “And I will need your name and address.”
    The dark figure shuddered. “Oh, I—we ne’er give out oor name an’ address!” it said quickly. “It is against oor religion, ye ken. Er…I dinna wanta be a knee aboot this, but why is ye all here freezin’ tae death?”
    “Our oxen wandered off, and alas, the snow’s too deep to walk through,” said Mr. Swinsley.
    “Aye. But youse got a stove an’ all them dry ol’ books,” said the dark figure.
    “Yes, we know,” said the librarian, looking puzzled.
    There was the kind of wretched pause you get when two people aren’t going to understand each other’s point of view at all. Then:
    “Tell ye what, me an’—ma knee—will go an’ fetch yer cows for ye, eh?” said the mysterious figure. “Got tae be worth a penny, eh? Big Yan, you’ll feel the rough side o’ my hand in a minit!”
    The figure dropped out of sight. Snow flew up in the moonlight. For a