Garrick, Dashiell, Surith, and Ember stepped through the creaking doors of the Bellwater Library. The place was a marriage of both the ages and a lack of organizational zeal. The interior was cavernous, with high, vaulted ceilings and shelves that seemed to stretch infinitely in every direction. Old, tattered banners hung above different aisles, declaring their sections—"Histories of the Realm," "Astaran Arts," "Herbal Remedies"—though their faded letters suggested they had not been updated in decades.

The library was both curiously ancient and unyieldingly vibrant. Numerous potted and hanging plants adorned the space, giving it a surprisingly lush and green appearance. Despite the clutter, the place had a bustling atmosphere. People of all ages and races were scattered about, some browsing the shelves, others hunched over tables with piles of books.

Garrick couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over him. The library looked nearly identical to the last time he had visited. It was as if time had stood still here, preserving the essence of knowledge and history within its walls.

"This place…big," Surith said softly, his hooded head craned back to admire the inner structure.

"Indeed," Dashiell said, smiling fondly. "It might surprise you to know that I spent a lot of my youth here, pouring over various tomes, reading about great heroes…"

His eyes flicked to Garrick momentarily before returning to the vast interior.

"Not surprise," Surith said, shaking his head. "You look like book man."

"I…" Dashiell started, but Garrick laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I'd take that as a compliment, Mr. Montrose," he said. "Hobgoblins tend to revere the written word as if the letters themselves are deities in their own right."

"Oh…" Dashiell said, nodding. "Well, then, thank you for the high praise, Surith."

"Not praise," Surith noted. "Just see book man."

"In any case, we've got work to do, don't we?" Garrick suggested, interjecting himself before the hobgoblin could truly offend the young Montrose. "Oh, look, there's someone manning the desk. Shall we?"

At the front desk sat a young woman, engrossed in a thick tome titled The Nuances of Elfish Etymology. She had an air of owlishness about her, with round spectacles perched on the bridge of her dainty nose and her black hair pulled back into a messy bun. Her attire was simple—a plain green dress with ink stains on the sleeves—suggesting she spent more time among the pages of books than in browsing her own closet.

The desk itself was the only uncluttered thing in the whole vicinity, a lodestar of order in the sea of bibliophilic chaos. Its polished wooden surface gleamed, devoid of the haphazard piles of books, stray scrolls, and errant ink pots that populated the rest of the library. However, one item did stand out: a large, ornate contraption made of brass and crystal, sitting prominently at one end of the desk. It resembled, to Garrick, a cross between a telescope and a typewriter, with a multitude of tiny gears and levers, all intricately interconnected. This curious device, he knew, assisted with cataloging the vast array of books and manuscripts within the library in some way (though, admittedly, he did not know how, precisely.) It occasionally emitted a soft whirring noise, as if pondering some great truth, or perhaps just deciding where to place the next volume of Mystic Mushrooms and Their Marvelous Ministrations.

Garrick approached the desk and cleared his throat, expecting the young woman to look up. She did not. Instead, she flipped a page with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving the text.

He cleared his throat again, louder this time. Still, she remained oblivious.

Dashiell, observing the situation, stepped forward with a polite but firm tone.

"Ms. Polly?"

Instantly, the young woman looked up, her eyes widening with recognition.

"Oh, Mr. Dashiell! My apologies, I didn’t hear you come in."

Garrick raised an eyebrow. Apparently, it took a bit of popularity to get her attention.

"No trouble at all, Ms. Polly," Dashiell said with a smile. "I wasn't aware you worked here."

The girl smiled.

"Yep! Going on two years, now. It's only during the summers, of course, when I'm on holiday break from my studies at Zorian Academy."

Zorian Academy, Garrick remembered. I believe that's the school Jasper Blackwood attends as well. I should remember that.

Though, he knew there was very little chance of him accurately recalling the name in the future.

"Such a strange coincidence, actually," Dashiell said, gesturing at the woman to Garrick. "I had just been explaining to my friends here about the time I stayed too long in your father's shop and got reprimanded for it by my mother."

Garrick smiled.

"Little coincidences," he said, though he didn't admit that the story hadn't really stuck with him. Dashiell was many things, it seemed, but an invigorating storyteller was not one of them.

"So," Polly began, looking them over. "What brings you in today, Mr. Dashiell and…"

Her eyes moved from Surith, to Garrick, to Ember (who was proudly puffing her chest out on Garrick's shoulder.)

"…miscellaneous others?"

"Garrick," Garrick said, offering a nod. Then he gestured to the fox on his shoulder. "This pretty little miss is Ember, and over here we have Surith."

The hobgoblin dipped his head lower to hide his face in his hood.

"Your friend alright under there?" Polly wondered.

"He's from a warmer climate," Garrick lied. "Claims its cold. Better to be bundled and comfortable, don't you think?"

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Polly's eyebrow slowly arched up.

"Warmer than here? Must be worlds away, then."

Then an idea seemed to occur to her, and she got visibly more excited.

"Oh, goodness! Is he perhaps a dignitary from Phaedros?"

"Phaedros?" Garrick wondered. "The Sunlit Kingdom? What gives you that impression?"

"Oh, only that there's rumors the Oasis Lords are whipping up some manner of accord with the Provincial Viceroys here."

Garrick looked at Dashiell for confirmation, and the young man nodded.

"Well, that's an interesting revelation," the old man said. "But why would one of the dignitaries be traveling with us?"

He chuckled.

"Not that we don't keep esteemed company, of course. But, we might be a little rough around the edges for the 'higher brow' folks."

Polly shrugged.

"Maybe to do with the road project? I don't rightly know…"

She winked at Garrick.

"You tell me."

"Ah, well…" Garrick started, confident he shouldn't claim Surith was some foreign diplomat, but also hoping enough mystery would push this suddenly nosy clerk off the hunt. "You never know, though, do you?"

He returned the wink.

Polly squinted suspiciously at the cowled hob while craning her neck to see under his hood.

"Heard another rumor that the ambassadors and mucky-mucks from Phaedros are all startling attractive…"

Dashiell cleared his throat.

"Ahem. Well, we were hoping you could help us with something, Ms. Polly," Dashiell said.

Polly pulled herself away from her investigation and nodded eagerly, setting her book aside.

"Right. Of course, anything you need, Mr. Dashiell. How can I help?" She paused, smirking. "And not another word with that 'Ms. Polly' business, please—I'm not some old woman. We're the same age."

"Apologies Mi—erm, Polly," Dashiell said. "Though, in that case, you can dispense with the honorifics for me, as well. Just call me Dashiell."

"Not a problem, Dashiell," she began. "So, what can I help you with?"

"We'd like to speak with Master Kilbourn, if possible," Garrick said.

Polly shook her head.

"Killy—er, Master Kilbourn is currently cloistered away in his study. Working on a project," she said mysteriously.

Killy, eh? Garrick thought. Seems Kilbourn has a sense of humor after all.

The curmudgeonly old man was painfully strict—and not just with his library. He'd seen individuals chucked out on their ears for what Kilbourn had described as 'breathing too wetly' near the books. Garrick knew him as someone who took great pride in himself, as well, and couldn't imagine any previous iteration of his former contact being comfortable with someone using a nickname of all things.

"Do you know when he will be free, Polly?" Dashiell asked. "The matter we wish to speak with him on is quite time sensitive, I am afraid."

"Could be hours, could be days…" Polly explained with a sigh—clearly not for Dashiell, but for her own predicament. "I've gone a week before without seeing any sign of him when he's shut himself out like that. All I know is that he left a note pinned to my desk saying he was…" She paused, sighing as she recited, "'deep in the thick of some business,' and he didn't want to be disturbed."

"You have no way of contacting him?" Garrick asked. "I am an old friend of his, I'm sure if you tossed my name his way he'd—"

"Unfortunately, no," Polly said with a grimace. "Trust me, sir, I wish that I did. I don't have any of the abilities he does, so cleaning this cavernous place takes ages without him."

"I see…" Garrick sighed.

"Well, I suppose we may have to reassess our priorities, then," Dashiell said dourly to Garrick. "Perhaps we can—Sir?"

Dashiell had paused because the old man had leaned forward to inspect the massive brass-and-crystal device on the end of the desk.

"What is this wily contraption called again?" Garrick asked.

"That's the Libraromatic Indexer," Polly explained.

"Seems expensive," Garrick said, his eyes never leaving the object.

"Oh," Polly continued, "It is. In fact, it's probably worth more than—hey! Hey, what are you doing?!"

Garrick had slipped his hands underneath the thing as if to lift it.

"You shouldn't do that!" Polly continued. "Kilbourn will murder us all if it's manhandled."

"I hope so," Garrick said, and hefted it up into the air.

"You can't—that thing weighs a ton!" Polly protested. "How are you…?"

She trailed off as Garrick easily brought the Libraromatic Indexer to shoulder height, then, in one hand, curled the device back.

"Sir!" Polly pleaded. "Please, don't—"

But Garrick wasn't obeying. Instead, he hauled back and pitched the whole thing forward, sending it flying across the library.

The Libraromatic Indexer soared over the aisles of books, a gleaming projectile cutting a graceful arc through the musty air. Heads turned, necks craned, and gasps of surprise echoed through the ancient hall as everyone in the library watched its trajectory. It glided toward the far wall's stained glass windows with an elegance that belied its hefty construction.

"Noooooo!" Polly cried out.

Just as it was about to smash into the delicate glass, there was a flash of light and a loud crack. The device halted in midair, suspended as if caught by an invisible hand. The room fell silent.

Then, a booming roar of anger filled the entire library.

"WHO DARES?!" It demanded, rumbling through the place so loudly that it shook the floor. "WHO DARES TO BREAK MY BAUBLES?!"

Garrick smirked.

"Well, that worked."

Polly's eyes were wide with horrified awe as she looked at Garrick.

"What have you done?!" she hissed.

Dashiell stepped forward, his demeanor hesitant.

"Master Kilbourn?" he asked. "It is I, Dashiell Montrose, and my companions. We require your assistance with a matter of great import—"

There was another loud crack that quieted the young man instantly.

The Libraromatic Indexer, still hovering in midair, began to slowly rotate as if searching for the source of the voice that had summoned it. The stained glass windows behind it seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, casting colorful patterns on the floor below.

A moment later, a figure materialized beside the suspended device, cloaked in robes that shimmered with every color of the spectrum. Master Kilbourn, the crotchety and revered keeper of the library, appeared in all his irate glory. At first, he seemed like a roaring fire in the rough shape of a bipedal creature, the light and heat radiating off him in waves. His form flickered and danced, an imposing figure that looked as though it could consume everything in its path.

As the flames began to subside, more details emerged. The fire gave way to the image of an old man with a stooped back, his body slightly bent as if carrying the weight of countless years and countless books. His fluffy mutton chops framed a face etched with the lines of age and wisdom, though currently twisted into a scowl of monumental proportions.

On his head perched a hat that looked as if it had seen better centuries. It was a stooped and crooked affair, with patches and frayed edges. The hat tilted precariously, as if held together by sheer obstinance.

His eyes, once blazing with fiery wrath, now burned with a more controlled intensity as he scanned the group with irritation. The transition from a fiery apparition to an irascible old man was almost comical, and yet, there was no mistaking the power that radiated from him.

"Dashiell Montrose," he intoned, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. "What is so urgent that you would resort to such theatrics?"

Dashiell stepped forward, bowing slightly.

"Forgive the intrusion, Master Kilbourn, but we have a pressing need for your expertise. We would not have disturbed you if it were not of utmost—"

"Kilbourn!" Garrick interrupted, his voice booming across the library. "You old bag of bones! Can't even greet an old friend when he comes calling?"

Kilbourn's gaze shifted to the other (though, markedly younger) old man, and a flicker of recognition crossed his features.

"Garrick," he sighed. "I should have known."

"Invite us into your study and quit scaring these fine folks, you wrinkled, crotchety raisin—before I start knocking over bookshelves."

There was absolute silence in the library after Garrick's declaration. Finally, after a good, long while, Kilbourn smirked.

"Garrick, you ignorant little upstart… I should toss you out on your imperious ass, you…imperious ass. Tell me why I should invite you in anywhere?"

Garrick chuckled, digging a hand into his satchel and removing a small cloth bag.

"Because I brought tea."

Kilbourn scowled, though he was still smirking (an expression that likely made him look his face had seized up). Then he snorted.

"Fine, fine!" he relented. "Follow me."