The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko

sort of provincial staple, and Treade was proud, to some extent, to boast two or three of them. The history behind the elevators and the people who owned them had faded now, the story of it on some plaque yet to be set up. But with the ethanol plant providing most of the town’s income, Treade had little use for the abandoned grain towers and all they implied. As usual.
    The house was empty, the sun shone on my Rapunzel elevator, and my heart was raring to go. There was no time like the present to fulfil my promise. Before I could exhale, I was darting through the suburbs and open fields, getting lost in my head.
    I found myself standing in front of the Fable Door so quickly that the effort it took to get here seemed like it had happened to someone else. I fingered the carvings, which always looked like they were submerged in the wood, diving through the waves on their way to worlds elsewhere. I had this urge to fling the door open and walk in through the front, bold as brass, taking ownership of the place like it was mine instead of having to scurry in the back way like a squirrel seeking refuge. I tugged on the chains and, as usual, they wouldn’t budge.
    I spent some time clearing away my hole, making it easier on myself, and Li, too, to keep getting in and out. Now that I thought about it, this
had
to be how he’d been getting in here; probably saw me doing it on that rainy afternoon and followed me in like a shadow . . . even though he was so much taller than me, and it’d be a wonder to see him fit through at all. Short of him passing through the walls, though, there was no other way.
    I pulled over an abandoned piece of rusted sheet metal from one of the various scrap piles leaning against the building, keeping it at the ready to cover my tracks when I left. I’d been pretty careless so far; if any of those new property owners showed up to appraise the place after that storm, they’d see my and the tree’s handiwork faster than we’d made it. I didn’t want to take the chance anymore. I crawled in.
    Morning sun filtered through the rose window, tinting the library in the pinks of the glass. I shut my eyes and inhaled; the old book smell was like a cake cooling on a windowsill. Potent. Inviting. I wanted to soak it up, and I twirled in the joy of it, dancing in the dust motes caught in the light, and revelling in the discovery of this sanctuary. A palace of books, of dreams themselves. My perception of the library had shifted in spite of (or because of) my misadventures here: I felt safe, felt at home, and calm, too, even though Li could pop out from any corner and catch me off guard. And even though I didn’t know him at all, and that we especially didn’t have much to talk about . . . I found myself missing him.
    â€œLi?” My voice bounced off the books and vanished. I was probably early. But I was still excited. Maybe we shared more than I thought. Maybe he was the answer to all my empty hopes for this town. Maybe he was a dreamer that had been ill-treated by Treade, too.
    Or maybe he just hung out here to get away from his overbearing parents.
    Either way, there was something about him, the way his eyes barbed into me like they were willing me to keep still. How he flitted from one place to another like a handful of light. How he so badly wanted to see me again. Or had that just been a hopeful daydream, too?
    Deciding to wander around while I waited, I wove from stack to stack. The books were endless, each one a speck in a universe. I wondered where they came from, where the covers had been bound, where the gold foil had been stamped. Some books were musty and worn, others looked unopened and fresh, and I could see that many were first editions. I snatched them up like precious stones, and after a handful of random selections, I settled in perfect quiet with Oscar Wilde in hand. There was a beautiful engraving of Dorian’s portrait on the facing page, and I