Lenox arrived at the library, an edifice that seemed uncomfortable with its place in time. More akin to a cathedral than early pilgrim architecture, it looked as if someone had plucked an ancient Catholic church from Rome and transplanted it to the New World. The library's intricate engravings and exacting details stood in stark contrast to the surrounding small shops with their wide windows displaying art and shirts adorned with sailboats—sights so familiar to coastal New England. The library jutted out like a skyscraper disrupting the composition of Venice.

The library's doors were behemoth constructions of wood studded with iron. Despite his physical strength, Lenox struggled to open them. By the time he'd created an opening wide enough to squeeze through, he was panting from the exertion.

A howl of wind accompanied Lenox's entrance, disappearing with the rest of the tempestuous weather as the doors slammed behind him. The scent of old lignin filled the air, tinged with hints of vanilla and a musty undercurrent. Lenox's rubber sole squeaked against the polished hardwood, the sound echoed throughout the cathedral-style building, whose very construction seemed to amplify any incursion into its silent state.

Lenox moved forward, trying to muffle his footfalls as he entered the labyrinth of bookshelves. Where the main entrance had seemed welcoming with its great doors and tall antechamber, the corridors of bookshelves were dark and winding, possessing an air with a thick, almost tangible presence that made it difficult to breathe. Lenox tried and failed to navigate by author; each shelf seemed arranged according to its own unique system.

As he delved deeper into the building, Lenox found himself increasingly lost. He ascended a wrought iron spiral staircase, descended marble steps rounded at the edges with age, found himself in a sort of basement, and could swear he was walking atop another bookcase at one point. He passed dank alcoves where hooded statues held books bound in tan leather, and a massive bronze bell flanked by bookshelves. Some shelves were awash in a rainbow of colors, which upon investigation revealed stained glass windows behind them.

As Lenox began searching for a pencil and paper to map the labyrinthine layout, a nasally tenor spoke from behind him.

"Hello," the man said, "I was wondering who was trudging around making all that racket."

Lenox pivoted to face a diminutive man with untidy white curls glaring at him through pinhole glasses. The man had a pronounced frown that seemed to disconnect his chin from the rest of his face. When he spoke, only his chin moved, like a nutcracker. He sat at a desk so seamlessly integrated into the bookshelf that it appeared like a statue carved from the same stone. Before him, an oil lamp cast a dim, unsteady light across the tome he was perusing.

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"Ah," said Lenox, "Are you Mr. Taffleton? I'm Lenox Aspect, the new owner of the Emerelda." Lenox extended his hand in greeting.

"Were you indeed? I believe you passed me twice. And yes, I am Mr. Taffleton." Mr. Taffleton regarded Lenox's proffered hand through his glasses, scrunched his nose, and returned to his reading.

Lenox awkwardly lowered his hand as Mr. Taffleton turned a page. "Uh... I'm here because you run the Bayside Historical Society."

"Mmm. Is that so?" Mr. Taffleton replied, his head deep in his book.

"Yes," said Lenox, he placed his hands at the edges of the desk and raised his voice so that it echoed through the repurposed cathedral, "I would like to make a donation. To go towards the restoration of the Bayside Lighthouse."

"Yes, the Bayside Lighthouse" replied Mr. Taffleton, his voice taking on a rote, memorized kind of pattern, "You can find a book on its history down the first set of stairs toward the maritime section, then take the third right into the terrestrial maritime buildings, then an immediate left into the Rhode Island terrestrial maritime building section, and if you head forward at the intersection past the "Rhode Island" and "Providence Plantations" segments, you'll find the outlying island sections, and you'll find the Bayside Lighthouse between the Aquidneck Island and Block Island subsections."

With this, Mr. Taffleton seemed satisfied that his conversation with Lenox over. When Lenox persisted at his position in front of the desk, he looked up again, annoyed.

"I didn't ask for that, Mr. Taffleton," Lenox said, his patience wearing thin.

Mr. Taffleton seemed to reconsider. "Ah yes, a donation. Of course. As you well know, there has been a fund for the restoration for quite some time. That boy, Davy, would quite prevent any progress towards a full restoration. And anyway, the fund only has some thousand dollars in it, and a restoration would cost at least 200k. So as you can see, any contribution is quite pointless."

Lenox beamed, unaware of these details but pleased that the amount was below his expectations. "Should I write the check to Bayside Historical Society then?"

"What?" Mr. Taffleton, now distracted from his reading, focused his full attention on Lenox.

"I've already arranged living arrangements for Davy, how does 250k sound, just in case anything pops up?"

Mr. Taffleton muttered something about Davy before he cleared his voice.

"I suppose that will suffice. Thank you for your contribution and all of that. I'm sure we can get you a plaque or something of that sort" Mr. Taffleton spoke as if the donation itself was equivalent to a can for a soup kitchen drive; his attention and surprise seemed to entirely revolve around the removal of Davy as an obstacle to his plan. "Do you need anything else?"

Lenox, almost offended by Mr. Taffleton's cavalier attitude, struggled with how to proceed. He did not wish to speak with Mr. Taffleton any further, finding the man deeply disagreeable. In fact, he wondered how Mr. Taffleton had become a librarian in the first place, given that the library seemed arranged to discourage finding any sort of book at all. However, Lenox did want more information about the orphanage for his upcoming speech at Belleview's commencement.

Steeling himself, Lenox asked, "Could you tell me some information about the orphanage? I'm due to speak on the subject at Belleview's convocation."

Unexpectedly, this question seemed to unlock something in Mr. Taffleton. He closed his book and began lecturing Lenox on the subject. What Lenox had anticipated as a brief 15-minute conversation turned into a three-hour monologue. Throughout this time, Lenox was unable to sit, noting the absence of seating areas in the library aside from Mr. Taffleton's chair.

Finally, Lenox arranged an 'urgent' call from Maurice to escape. As he prepared to leave, Mr. Taffleton bid him farewell: "Goodbye, Mr. Aspect. It is a fine thing to meet a student of history. This time, if you would please use the main entrance to the building." He pointed to a typical oak door that, like his desk, seemed to merge into the bookshelves. Lenox opened it with much more ease than the massive doors he had entered through and stepped outside, glad to be free of the eccentric librarian and his labyrinthine domain.