AND SHE WAS NOT AN ADVENTURE I FLYNN CARSEN

The Librarian's Apprentice

The Librarian's Apprentice

Clara pushed the hair out of her eyes, stomach rumbling painfully. She'd slept in her clothes on the floor, leaving the shroud where it lay. When she'd tried to turn in for the night, the couch had thrown her off, a bit like a bucking bronco. The ground had seemed a safer option, even though she'd half expected it to crack open and dispose of her into Dante's Inferno or something. Nothing would surprise her anymore. The brand new toothbrush she'd tried to use had suddenly sprouted fangs, the toothpaste doing the same. As for the hairbrush...

She shuddered at the memory of it opening up its beady eyes, before getting unsteadily to her feet. As she did so, the door burst open, Flynn bearing a tray of food, a dress slung over his arm, Clara doing a double-take at the flower-pot he was sporting upon his head. Unperturbed by her raised eyebrow, he set the tray down on the desk, before chucking the dress at her, Clara having to dive like a goal-keeper to catch it.

"All items of hosiery, undergarments and such can be found in the bathroom," Flynn said pompously, "and that includes toiletries and fripperies for the average female."

"Your bathroom hates me," Clara said from between gritted teeth, "and so does your couch."

"I shall have a word with the bathroom," Flynn said loftily, straightening his bow-tie, "and as for the couch, she's just having separation issues, that's all."

"I'm having issues full-stop!" Clara seethed as Flynn strode into the bathroom, disappearing through its doorway. Shaking her head to herself, she turned the dress over in her hands, raising both eyebrows now at the blue and white polka-dot pattern of the fabric. But the rough feel of it between her fingers made her accept once and for all this was really happening to her, that it wasn't a dream or somebody's piece of fan-fiction. She really was trapped in a labyrinth of a library with a mad-man at its helm.

Flynn strode back out of the bathroom, looking triumphant, his victorious expression sitting at odds with the flower-pot now tilted over one eye. He clapped his hands together before breaking into a break-dancing routine which morphed into a speeded up Scotch reel, the sight making Clara take a step back. She was heavily into her Tudor dancing, but when he then started doing the cha-cha, before segueing into some sort of odd side-step shuffle, she knew where her love of dance ended, usually before the men in white coats came bursting through the doors.

"Are you done?" she asked uneasily as he started doing the Charleston.

"I am, but the curse isn't," he said, panting slightly now with the exertion.

"Curse?"

"I was cursed before I came in here," he explained, doing the Can-Can with admirable ease, "to dance myself to death."

"You were cursed?" Clara said slowly, not sure if she was hearing things.

"By a crone in Budapest."

Clara just stared at him before suddenly slapping him hard across the face. He reeled back, his hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. Clara crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head to one side. "Something to say, big boy?" she said pertly.

"You just hit me!"

"But you're not dancing anymore, are you?"

Flynn looked down at his feet, his eyes widening even further. "Oh," he breathed.

"Oh indeed," Clara said.

~*~

Trailing her fingertip along the rows of books, Clara tiredly traversed the shelves, the heels of her ballet flats soundlessly crossing the floor. After cleaning herself up in the now well-behaved bathroom, tying her hair up in a high pony-tail and donning the dress Flynn had brought her, the bathroom providing shoes and everything else, she'd then tucked into the slightly bizarre breakfast Flynn had laid out for her, before going exploring to no avail.