it would not be recognized by many in this day and this age. when the [one who would be] Fleet first saw it, he blinked, and slowly—not too slowly—turned the page. he read on for a measure, as much in ears as eyes, then rose and placed it on the shelf. note there: placed, not replaced; he slipped it behind a catalog of gardening supplies, far from the stacks where he’d pulled it. he left the library, went awalk for a week, wondering whether the urge would abate.
deliberation dulled it, but barely, and an accounting of his breaths told him he’d be better off to act than wait. so he slipped in nightwise, found his way to the section by feel, and swapped the book with the reprint he’d brought—he’d remove, then, already, but he wouldn’t yet steal. he wrapped the novel in linen. on his way out he reset the locks. home found him hurrying to clear out a space on the desk in the room with the clocks.
he lay it down gingerly, spine flat and leaves spread, and turned the pages one by one as a hum grew louder in his head. two more, one more—he knew its place by number—and then there he saw it: the sigil of Starve-Not-Nor-Slumber. in the margin, in maroon, it was drawn with craft and care. he’d found his first filament; he should take the next steps, stand up, stride . . . but all he could seem to do was stare.
how long he sat there, his ledger doesn’t say. he should, by all rights we reason, be there staring yet—but that wondering will await another day. tonight, we must think thoroughly through this threat: if curves and colors can call so strongly that stomach and sleep subside, would even a thousand words be enough to weaken the will his horography hides?