The Hidden World of Nitea [2 | The Other Realms Series]

Chapter Four

Columns of towering bookshelves, stocked to the brim with tomes, formed an outline of the gallery. They blended with the walls so seamlessly that it was hard to tell whether the shelves were directly carved into the walls or simply attached to them. Pristine pillars stood in front of the shelves and held up a second floor, which resembled a narrow path with railings more than an actual floor. In front of each pillar was a bust of a famous figure, each of their frozen faces watching those who roamed around. Old wooden tables and old wooden chairs filled the remaining space in the room, offering a place for patrons to sit and relax. The library had more than enough ways to keep its interior well-lit—candle chandeliers, which hung closer to the floor than the ceiling, hovered above the ground every few tables; two table lamps, dressed in dark greenish lampshades, occupied each desk; and wide windows, which spanned from the floor to the second floor, let sunlight pour into the room. It was Bibliothèque Mazarine.

José breathed a relaxed sigh as he stepped into the main gallery. It was not the first time he had visited the library, and he sure hoped that it would not be his last. He strode across the floor, his dark brown eyes taking in the old architecture as he admired his environment. He savored the serene atmosphere, noting how the quietness made the softest sounds seem much louder. José took a right turn, then another right turn, and then strolled towards the very end. An antique globe rested there, surrounded by a wall of table-like glass enclosures. Some of them showcased ancient parchment, opened and laid flat or placed on a bookrest. He scrutinized the artifacts.

"José?"

José jerked his body, startled by a susurration. He turned to his right side to find Eddie standing right next to him. He was surprised—he had not heard Eddie's footsteps at all!

"Yes?" he whispered back.

"I just want to remind you that we're staying here for four hours," Eddie reminded him, his voice barely audible. "We'll be here until six."

"Okay," he said, "how long's the lesson, again?"

"Two hours. It starts at two thirty, so it's about"—Eddie glanced at his wristwatch—"thirty minutes from now."

José nodded his head. "I'll remind Jon when it's time."

"Thank you."

Eddie then left him alone, barely making any noise with each step. José wondered how he was able to walk so soundlessly. Maybe it's the shoes. After a while, José strode towards one of the tables. It was time to read.

José pulled out a chair and sat at a table. He retrieved a book from the bag he was carrying. "Ah," he exhaled. What better place to ensconce yourself in a novel than a noiseless library? Before he began reading, he took some time to appreciate the cover. It was not the most beautiful book cover he had seen. Had the novel not been written by his friend, he likely would not have bothered to pick it up. Luckily, the words written between the binding more than made up for its lackluster design. He cracked the book open and took a deep breath. Peace and quiet in a public setting were not easily found in cities.

José began reading. It was the third time he had read the book, though technically it was also his fifth time. José was one of the few people who was asked to comment on the story's first draft. He remembered receiving the massive manuscript with both hands, its sheer density intimidating him—did he have enough spare time to read, let alone finish, the entire work? He almost regretted volunteering to read it. However, his doubts were washed away once his eyes landed on the first page, mesmerized by his friend's ability to weave words and make them flow like a tranquil river. The manuscript hooked him, immersed him, and compelled him to read until his hands grew weary from holding it up and turning its pages. When his friend handed him the second draft, he read it as quickly as he did with the first. Not to José's surprise, the book made it to the shelves of bookstores and public libraries. He was one of the lucky few who received a signed copy at no expense. The author's autograph was still there on the title page, a string of squiggles preceded by a message: "To my friend, José Blanco Moreno, from Brandon de Bellefort." It was thanks to Brandon that José discovered his love for literature and became a voracious reader.