Always the Bridesmaid

Part X

Despite his best efforts to convince the Library not to let Sadie back in, she comes back. Again and again and again. Five times, in fact. With each appearance, her questions grow more and more numerous, like mushrooms on old wood. And each time, the Librarian does his best to deflect with all the things the books tell him.

"So where's your apartment? Can I see it?"

"You should tell your mother about the vase, Sadie."

"Do you ever leave the Library? What's it like out there?"

"You have an essay due on Friday. You forgot to write it down in your planner, but it's on the syllabus."

"What is your name? Is it John? You look like a John."

"A bouquet of purple hyacinth often means 'I'm sorry'; one of yellow roses and ivy is an offering of friendship. Choose wisely."

"Have you ever read all the books in the Library? What do you do for fun, besides all those videos?"

"If you're that worried, practice."

"Do you ever talk to the other librarians?"

"You should apply to the out-of-state college too."

And then, there's the sixth time—this time. The Librarian isn't even surprised when he looks up from his book to find her peering over the edge of the circulation desk at him. He sighs and lowers the book a little.

"I don't recognize that cover," she says.

It's a pretentious contemporary fiction that he swears to no one in particular that he's only reading because it's popular within the waking world and not at all because the romantic intensity between its two leads is deeply fascinating to him, but he is telling Sadie exactly none of this.

"You wouldn't be interested in it," he tells her instead. He flips a page as a period to this thought, exaggerating the rasp of the paper in his fingers to cut off any follow-up questions she may have. Then, he extends that same hand to her. "So. What book is it this time?"

He doesn't need to look up to know that Sadie is examining him sheepishly. The hesitation she has in slipping the book onto his palm is a story enough.

"Mm. The Marvelous Land of Oz?" he asks.

"Already read it. This one's The Lost Princess of Oz," she replies. Then, after a pause: "Okay, I read this too, but it's my favorite. My dad used to read it to me all the time."

This draws the Librarian's attention. He settles his eyes on her for a second, then leans back in his chair, placing his book face-down on the desk. He brings Sadie's to the light and runs his hand across its cover. It's The Lost Princess of Oz, sure enough, but it's curious. She's never mentioned her father. Not since—oh, what was it? A divorce? Not that it really matters. The books told him ages ago, when he taught her how to make paper cranes, but every subsequent problem never seemed to be relevant to the father. It wasn't as if Sadie could have done anything anyway. The problems of adults are the problems of adults, and Sadie was a child when that happened.

He feels sorry for her, even now. He doesn't remember much of his childhood; he really didn't put much thought into making memories before he'd ended up in the Library. But marriage? He may not have experienced it himself, but the entire idea of marriage was something he knew well. Not from personal experience but . . . vicariously. He's always envied those who could have one . . . and envied those who could break them easily even more.

This has nothing to do with Sadie, and he knows this and pushes the thought aside. It has everything to do with an oncoming headache, though, so he presses his fingers into his temples, exhales, and asks the Library for something.