AND SHE WAS NOT AN ADVENTURE I FLYNN CARSEN

The Pages Of Purgatory

The Pages Of Purgatory

And finding answers
Is forgetting all of the questions we called home
Passing the graves of the unknown...

Flynn dusted down his tweed jacket with one hand, whilst clutching a croissant with the other. He'd left Clara in the library wing, before disappearing to Dijon, feeling like he needed a trip to France to clear his head. He knew he was being a cur towards Clara, but it was better that way. The less she knew about the Library, the better. There was no need for her life to become entangled with the Library's. Once he'd sorted out the fankle she had found herself in, he'd send Clara on her merry way.

As he strode past a stuffed dromedary, he glanced over the ornate balustrade, only to hesitate at the sight of Clara sitting in the middle of the floor below, arms wrapped around her head. Flynn took a step back, feeling the first stirrings of guilt. But what could he do? She wanted answers, and he couldn't give her them. Some of the answers he didn't even know himself. He really had just stepped out for a coffee that morning, needing his usual caffeine hit to set him up for the day. He'd had no intentions of becoming saddled with some mini-skirted stranger, but here he was, and he just had to make the best of a bad situation.

Whether Clara would was a whole different question, one Flynn was also unable to answer.

~*~

"Dr. Clara Guinevere Hartley," Judson said, straightening a button on his suit, "twenty seven years old, IQ of 290, muliti-lingual, single, no dependants, waitress at Hurricane Anne's Breezy Bistro, used to teach Medieval and Renaissance Studies before the funding to her department was cut. Mother died five years ago, has no other known family. Has a complex about King Arthur bordering on slight obsession."

"Thank you for that succinct summary of our resident interloper," Flynn said curtly as he polished Excalibur, the sword almost purring in appreciation.

"Pretty as a picture too," Judson said under his non-existent breath.

"Her face is so wide she probably needs three mirrors to see it," Flynn snapped, "and she's got a funny nose."

Judson just raised his eyebrows.

"And she's miniscule," Flynn continued, "like Polly Pocket come to life."

"Maybe that's her mystery," Judson said. "She's an inanimate object trying to find her place in the world, when it's really on a toy-store shelf."

"I am not some child's play-thing!" Clara retorted from the doorway.

"Oh, hello Clara," Judson said jovially, "didn't see you there."

"Of course you wouldn't," she snapped, "I'm miniscule, remember?"

"I have to wash my hair," Judson said, before fading into oblivion again.

"Why are you here?" Flynn said, examining his reflection in Excalibur's now gleaming surface.

"Some ninjas tried to assassinate me, remember?" Clara said, hesitating before coming into Flynn's office, its imposing interior slightly intimidating.

"No, I know that," Flynn sighed, "I mean why are you here? Like here?"

"A roll of loo paper tried to strangle me," Clara snapped again.

"So would you if someone tried to wipe their backside with your face," Flynn snapped back.

"That's its job though!" Clara argued, feeling like she'd gone mad.

"You keep telling yourself that," Flynn muttered, resuming his polishing.

"I just want to go home," Clara cried, stamping her foot, "I don't want to be here, with talking furniture and angry loo paper and dead people living in mirrors! This is not my life!"