The Table

"You have no idea what you're asking."

"Thirty thousand for both, or I take neither."

The first book, the one the old man had originally offered, was enormous by any metric. A foot and a half by over two feet long with four full inches of deckle-edged paper between its red leather covers, it sat like a plump idol in the center of the kitchen table. There had been a design tooled into the cover once, something lovely and meaningful, but the same hands that had worn the silver clasp black with tarnish had smoothed it into obscurity.

He gripped the back of the chair, tree-knot knuckles turning white. "I shouldn't even be showing the big one to you. I shouldn't even have ever touched it. It's...unspeakably precious."

"I understand that," replied the Librarian. He kept his eyes on the old man, not the books.

"I don't know that you do."

"It's like selling the family Bible."

He laughed. "That's the last thing on earth it's like. A family Bible belongs to the family. It's passed down. It's a shared object. This...no one was ever supposed to touch this but her. No one. It's consecrated. It's bound to her, to her energy, her spirit. If my brother knew it still existed, he'd have already done what we're supposed to."

"Burn it?"

"Burn it."

His nose wrinkled. "And lose all the knowledge in it? After all she and the others did, I would think they would want to pass their methods on."

He didn't buy it. "Please," he said, staring at the books. "Spare me the sacred knowledge nonsense. We're not talking about Alexandria here. Anything in it worth keeping was hand-copied into their books a long time ago. That's not why you want it. You want it because it was hers. You want it because you're not supposed to have it."

"You know what? Fair. That and the historical weight of it, obviously. Even if it's never opened again, it's still an important object in the grand scheme of things."

"Of course. So, like I said on the phone, ten thousand. It alone is worth twenty easily. Double at a public auction."

"As if there is security enough on Earth to ever risk letting this book go to a public auction." The Librarian, slim and blue-suited, bent slightly to inspect the larger book. His hands were clasped behind his back, as though to avoid temptation. "Can it be opened without damaging the lock?"

"Easily."

"Do you have a catalog of the contents?"

"I've never looked. My brother probably does, but he can't know either of us have it."

"Right. And that...." The Librarian pointed to the second book: slim, black, unremarkable. The corners were worn to their core and the whole thing arched upward off the table, still bending around a long-gone hip. It could have been any one of thousands.

"That is not for sale."

"Do you know what's in it?"

"Yes, but I also have no idea."

They stared at each other, neither daring to back down. "Is it," the Librarian asked slowly, "her Mirrors?"

"A volume of it, yes. There was always one of these, but I can't imagine this was the only one. It's just the only one I've found."

"Thirty thousand for both."

"No."

"Well." the Librarian said with finality, checking his watch. "I suppose I'll be off then." He gently reshaped the crown of the hat he'd clutched since entering the house, donned it, and nodded to his host.

The old man shrugged, ignoring the screams as red, pulsing numbers flashed through his head. He led the other man to the door. "If not you, someone else," he said, hand on the knob.

"Probably not, actually."

He stopped mid-turn. "How do you mean?"

The Librarian shrugged. "When I came through this door, I said I wanted to see the books. Books. Plural. You knew exactly what I meant, and you never questioned how I knew there was more than one."

He hadn't. He'd been too wrapped up in wrestling with what a very different set of books told him had to be done. There were levels of decision there, and he'd been busy trying to figure out where he could afford to draw a line.

"Two weeks ago," the Librarian continued, "a man called me. Never gave a name. He told me there was a second book, one that contained the actual thoughts and feelings of one of the most powerful people of our time, rather than just her actions. Three other dealers and two collectors got that same call. It's spread since. There is no one who will buy the Shadows--the contents of which, as you said, are largely known--without taking that unopened volume of her Mirrors."

His stomach sank. "Peter."

"I would assume so. He said it was what you deserved. Look, I understand this is hard for you. Regardless of whatever else it is to me or anyone, it's--"

"It's my mother's diary." He didn't mean to sound so angry, but there it was.

"Exactly. That's rough. Now, I don't mean to be unfeeling here, but I do have one question."

"What?"

"If you didn't know I knew about it and it's not for sale regardless, why was it sitting on the table when I walked in?"