The Library at Midnight

Chapter 3: Nathaniel Hawthorne in 1852

I returned to my spot on the light wood floors and grabbed the next lucky newspaper-bundled object as the playlist started playing Pachelbel Canon in D. I glanced at Brinley who was still fiddling with her shoes. Now she had a miniature sewing kit to the left of her knee.

"They new?" I tried, nodding at the silk shoes and ribbons. Though music-filled silence never used to bother me, being so silent with a stranger did. She grinned and looked down.

"Yeah! Mom sent them in the mail and I just got them today. They're Bloch. Aren't they gorgeous?" she gushed. I nodded and further examined the shoes. She had unraveled the ribbons and the elastics were placed on top. "They're my favorite brand so far! I had Grishko last time, but I like these."

"But I thought you just got them today?" Surely she couldn't have danced in shoes without their ribbons or elastics.

She laughed softly before stating, "I was so excited, I tried them on in the mail room." A small laugh escaped my lips as I looked at her.

"Well, okay then." I returned down to the object that I had unwrapped at some point in the conversation. It was a small wooden box; about the size of a ring box. It was painted black and a sealed silver clasp was at the front. Silver-painted dandelions sprouted from the left corner and the seeds danced across the rest of the lid, as if actually floating in the gentle air.

I reached behind me and placed the box lightly on the top of my keyboard.

After unloading memory after memory and stringing unframed photos across the wall under my bed, I was nearly done with the boxes that now, after being emptied, sat inside each other like those Russian dolls.

It was now four-thirty in the afternoon and I was officially starving. The container of chicken salad I packed this morning didn't even last the cab ride from the airport. I rummaged through my bookbag for the bag of emergency pretzels I packed every day for times of desperation like this. That's when I remembered that I gave them to a little boy on the plane when he couldn't eat the peanuts.

I threw my head back and groaned somewhat externally. Brinley looked at me and cocked her head to the side before asking what was wrong.

I told her I was starving and without a second thought her supplies were in her bag which was thrown over her shoulder. Not only that but my bag was thrown over my own shoulder and we were locking the door behind us.

"You don't need to lock the door, you know. Everyone's reliable here," she assured. I followed after her down the hall.

"I know. Just a precaution, I guess."

She shrugged and led me down the hallway, turned down the stairs and out the door. I assumed she was taking me to the dining hall. We walked past girls in the white and plaid and boys in the blue blazers, when Brinley stopped to talk to a girl heading the same way. Brinley gave the quick introduction, "This is Rowan, she starts tomorrow," with a genuine beam.

The girl had surreal blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail at the base of her neck that fell over her shoulder. Her blazer was thrown over her arm and her skirt was rolled an inch or two higher than what you'd think was policy at such a posh school. Her tie hung squarely from her neck and her loafers looked military clean. She was the exact image of something you could only describe as expensive. I swiped my hand through my locks and looked down the path.

"Hi," I managed. She smiled sweetly as I offered my hand. "Rowan, like she said."

"Hi, I'm Sarah. Welcome to the Conservatory." She met my hand lightly. Her wrists were thin and her skin was pale. She had the same build as me, but something about her seemed fragile, like tissue paper; too much pressure and she'll wrinkle, too sharp and she'll tear. I met her eyes and gave a timid smile.