As we enter the library, my nose is kissed by the mild scent of roses. My eyes move around the room, searching for the source of such a lovely fragrance. I find a huge bouquet of white roses, resting on a rustic oak table by the open windows. The emerald green curtains dance to the silent music of the wind as the gentle breeze delivers me another aromatic kiss from the roses. Outside, the view goes to a beautiful garden. And far behind it, I can see the ocean.
"I've wanted to bring you here since we arrived yesterday," Sandro says.
The room is enormous, probably the largest in the house, and it has high ceilings. The elevated walls are lined with books, side to side, floor to ceiling, with tall ladders set on casters placed along some shelves. I see row after row of perfectly aligned hardcovers. Every shelf is occupied, not a single vacant space. Some with silver linings, and some with gold. Some have covers of leather, and some velvet. These are no ordinary books.
"Wow," I express my complete and utter reverence as I lean closer to one of the shelves to take a lungful of air, welcoming one of my favorite things, the smell of old books.
"Now, that's a face I'd love to see every day," Sandro says, and I hear the smile in his voice. "Go on. Take one...or two, whichever you want, as many as you want. It's my gift."
"Are these all like...first editions?" I ask distractedly as I grab and examine a book.
"Yes. Go ahead, choose."
"But they must cost a fortune. I couldn't accept it."
"I want to give it to you."
"You already gave me a first edition, remember?" I close the book and put it back.
"That was different." He winks at me. "I still want you to choose one now, here...take a look around." He beckons me to follow him across the library. "All these right here are English literature. You have Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens." He gestures toward different shelves on the wall as he names the authors. "The Brontë sisters. Shakespeare's there and Agatha Christie and Oscar Wilde and George Eliot." His tone is enthusiastic, unlike earlier this morning when he was confessing everything to me. "Over there's the Spanish literature. The Italian. The French. The American." He keeps pointing in different directions. "You name the author, and I'll find them for you. They're all here."
"Impressive. But I can't. It's too much."
"If it makes you feel any better, you should know that while they might be worth a small fortune now, they didn't cost me much at all. I have collected them through the years since I was a child. And as you know, I'm almost two hundred years old." He winks at me, a charming smile showcasing his perfectly white teeth.
"Of course." I smile. "But still, I can't. These are your treasure, and like you said, you've collected them for almost two hundred years. I can't take that from you."
"Please. I want you to have at least one, your favorite. You should see your face right now...how radiant and glorious it is," he says. "You love books. I've seen how happy they make you, and I want to give that to you. I want to make you happy...anyway I can."
"Wait...you said you've seen how happy books make me?" The image of him standing across the hall in the library flights back into my head. I remember thinking about it for hours, convinced it had been my imagination. "Were you there in the library that day?"
"Yes, I was."
I take a deep breath. "That seems unfair."
"Unfair?" He frowns confused.
"Yes. I thought I was going crazy...seeing you everywhere."
"Well, I must confess. If you saw me or think you did, believe me, I was there," he admits shamelessly. "And trust me, you didn't always see me."
YOU ARE READING
HALFBLOOD DANCER
ParanormalWhat if you suddenly discovered that supernatural beings existed and lived among us? What if you found that you were one of those creatures and your entire life was a lie? And, what if that truth would require you to do the unthinkable? Would you sa...
