Teaching by the Book

Chapter 1

 

The aging fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the empty halls of the school, which was once lit at night by candles and oil lanterns. The lights are humming with the quiet persistence of obedient mechanisms doing their duty long after most of the humans have left for the weekend. Founded in 1799, Holloway State College is now an insignificant relic among the liberal arts colleges of the East Coast, especially compared with the early Colonial colleges. The literature department is housed in the oldest building on campus, a Gothic monstrosity of ivy covered walls, slightly sagging ribbed vaults featuring pillars that supported pointed arches, and stained glass featuring likenesses of ancient philosophers and stodgy pedagogists.

It’s after dinner time on a Friday evening, and Sofia Olafson is tired and hungry in more ways than just physical.

Sofia does not look up as she strides past the trophy cases in the main hallway. In spite of being near exhaustion, her long, slender legs move effortlessly in her ankle-length prim skirt and her low-heeled shoes click firmly against the polished linoleum like the ticking of a metronome: precise, unyielding, never ceasing its ordained motion. The stack of ungraded essays in her arms smells faintly of ink and somehow reeks of adolescent desperation, the pages warm from being pressed against her firm breasts.

She doesn’t slow down when she reaches the junction where the east wing splits from the main corridor, where the air always carries the remnants of outdated chalk dust and molding wood. Instead she turns left, toward the faculty lounge, where a tuna salad (with no dressing) awaits her in the communal refrigerator. Her well-shaped jaw is set in the way it does when she’s calculating how many hours of sleep she’ll sacrifice to these papers. She still has her sights set on becoming head of the Comparative Literature Department, and believes she will be in contention when the opening arises.

But suddenly she pauses, her body rigid and her delicate perfectly-shaped nose sniffing delicately in the musty air.

Not because she wants to. She is really looking forward to eating that rather bland tuna salad. And not because she’s tired – although she is, almost always in her relentless pursuit of her career goal. She pauses because something in the air has shifted from the norm.

It’s subtle at first: a thin trace of something cooler, something that doesn’t belong in the outdated yet still functioning climate-controlled monotony of the school. A draft, perhaps, slipping through a crack in an exterior door joint, or perhaps a faulty air vent. Sofia exhales through her nose, the sound almost scornful at her immediate thought. Drafts don’t smell like freshly polished wood and old parchment.

She turns her head just enough to glance down the narrow hallway that branches off to the right, the one that dead-ends at the janitor’s closet. Or so she’s always assumed. The lights here are dimmer, the bulbs spaced farther apart, as if the school itself has forgotten this corridor exists. The walls are lined with framed maps of the world from the 1820s, their edges yellowed, the glass over them filmed over with decades of neglect. Sofia has walked past this hallway a hundred times. She’s never noticed the way the air here seems to shimmer above the linoleum floor like a misty trace of heat rising off icy sidewalks on a winter’s day, distorting the edges of the maps just slightly.

Her fingers tighten around the essays. She should keep walking. She is looking forward to that salad. She has work to do. Grading. Lesson plans. Plotting her ascension to the pinnacle of her tiny world so she can reach a salary that will allow her to move out of her tiny apartment. It’s a life that doesn’t involve chasing phantoms down forgotten hallways.

But the scent pulls at her ... sweet, almost cloying, like caramel left too long in the pan. It’s the kind of smell that shouldn’t exist in a place like this, where everything is either too musty and decrepit or too sanitized and scheduled. It’s the kind of smell that reminds her of the patisserie near her old university in Oslo, where she used to go when she was supposed to be studying. Where she’d sit for hours with a single espresso and a kransekake, watching the snow fall outside, pretending she wasn’t lonely.

Sofia swallows. The sound seems too loud in the stillness all around her.

She steps forward ... but tentatively.

The first thing she notices is the door. It shouldn’t be there. The janitor’s closet is ten feet farther down the hall, its peeling gray door marked with a faded PERSONELL ONLY sticker. But this door is very different. The wood is dark, almost black, possibly black walnut or mahogany, and with a glossy sheen to it like it has been polished daily for centuries. It strangely possesses a brass handle shaped like a serpent coiled around itself, its eyes two tiny garnets that catch the dim light. The door is slightly ajar, as if someone recently slipped inside and forgot to close it properly. A sliver of golden warmth spills onto the linoleum, pooling like honey. Like a little bee, she cannot resist the lure.

Sofia’s pulse thuds in her throat as she reaches for the handle. She shouldn’t touch it. She knows she shouldn’t. She must do her duty to her students and to her ambitions. But the warmth calls to her, a promise of something different from the decrepit coldness of the school and the weight of her own discipline. She shifts the essays to one arm and reaches out with her free hand. Her fingers hover just above the brass, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the wood. It’s alive, somehow. Not like a door. Like the hide on an animal. A live animal.

She pushes.

The door swings open without a sound, as if it’s been waiting for her. The air that rushes out is thick, humid, carrying the scent of old books and something primeval: like rich, damp earth after a storm, or like the first deep breath taken after a long-held scream. Sofia’s lungs fill with it, and for a moment, she’s not in the school anymore. She’s somewhere else. Somewhere older. And much more mysterious.

The room beyond is vast. Impossible! The building could not possibly contain it. The real school library would take up only a tiny corner of this colossus.

The ceiling stretches upward into shadow, supported by columns of dark wood carved with intricate, twisting patterns ... vines, perhaps, or serpents, or something in between. Shelves rise from the floor like the ribs of a great beast, curving upward, disappearing into the gloom, and yet there are no walkways at the higher levels, not even a ladder. They’re packed with books, perhaps hundreds of thousands of them, their spines all leather-bound, some cracked with age, others so pristine they seem to glow faintly in the low light. The air hums, not with electricity, but with something deeper, something like a note held on a cello, vibrating just at the edge of hearing. Something ... intense.

Sofia’s breathing almost stops. Her body reacts before her mind can stop it: her nipples tighten against the thick fabric of her bra, the sensation sharp, almost painful. She shifts her weight, the sudden ache between her thighs unfamiliar, unwelcome.

This is ridiculous. How can she be reacting in such a manner simply by entering a library? She’s a grown woman, a professor, not some wide-eyed girl who gets flustered over an imposing room.

But the air here is alive, pressing against her skin like fingers, tracing the line of her collarbone, the curve of her slim waist. She can feel the weight of her own body in a way she hasn’t in years: the drag of her skirt against her stockings, the way her starched blouse clings just a little too tightly across her chest.

Yet, as if compelled to enter by an unseen hand she cannot resist, she steps inside.

The door closes behind her with a soft yet somehow definite click. Sofia doesn’t turn to look. She’s already seen enough to know that the hallway is gone. In its place is more of the library, stretching endlessly, the shelves curving away from her like the aisles of a cathedral. The light comes from nowhere and yet everywhere, golden and diffuse, as if the room itself is lit from within. She takes another step, her heels sinking slightly into the thick carpet. It is a deep red, the color of dried roses rather than blood. The silence is absolute, but somehow it’s not empty. It’s the kind of silence that listens.

“You’re late.”

She jerks, more at the words than the sudden sound.

The voice comes from her left, smooth and low, like dark chocolate melting on the tongue. Sofia turns, her spine snapping straight, her teacher’s instinct to chastise rising automatically. But the words die in her throat.

The man – if he is a man – sits behind a desk of polished mahogany, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He’s lean, almost gaunt, his suit the color of a raven’s wing, tailored so perfectly it might as well be part of his skin. His face is all sharp angles: cheekbones like blades, a jawline that could cut glass, and a nose that is aquiline and yet not overly prominent. His eyes are the color of old brandy, golden and depthless. His hair is black, slicked back from his forehead, not a strand out of place. He looks like a character from a gothic novel, the kind who knows too much and says very little. And yet, somehow, everything blends perfectly in this otherworldly setting so that he is surprisingly attractive.

Sofia’s grip on the essays tightens. “This is private property.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. Something darker, more mysterious. “Is it?”

She frowns, and swallows to lubricate her dry throat. His answer leaves her non-plussed, irritated. She tries again.

“This is not the college library. I’ve been in it many times, and it’s much smaller and ... mustier than this. This is the same size as the main building.”

The man nods. “This library has existed far longer than your little college.” He gives a tiny shrug. “However, it’s ..l. Private. Not for the general population. But you fit right in her ... don’t you?”

It is framed as a quesstion, but delivered as a statement. She has no idea if she ‘fits in’ or not.

She glances around, as if the answer might be written on the spines of the books. The titles are in languages she doesn’t recognize, the letters looping and strange, some of them seeming to shift when she tries to focus on them. And yet the meanings are clear to her, the messages leaping into her mind without any hesitation:

“The Book of Whispers”.

“The Burden of Lost Hours”.

“The Confessions of the Unspoken”.

“The Loneliness of Being Me”.

Her pulse increases with every title she reads. She tears her eyes away before her chest splits apart.

“Where am I?” she moans, bewildered and helpless as never before in her life.

“Where you’ve always been,” the man says, rising from the chair with a fluid grace that makes her think of jungle cats, of predators that move stealthily in the dark. He’s taller than she expected, his suit hugging the lean muscle of his frame. “Just a few pages deeper into the story.”

Sofia’s fingers twitch. She wants to adjust her bun, to smooth her skirt, to do something with her hands that shows control rather than standing here like a fool. But she doesn’t, because she somehow knows she is not in control of this situation ... or even of her body.

So instead she lifts her chin instead, falling back on the armor of her intellect. Always mind over matter. “This isn’t possible. The school doesn’t have a room like this.”

“No,” he agrees, stepping around the desk. His shoes make no sound on the carpet. “It doesn’t.”

He stops just out of arm’s reach, close enough that she can see the flecks of amber in his irises, the way his pupils dilate slightly as he looks at her. Sofia’s breathing now stops entirely for several beats. She hates that it does. So she forces her vocal cords to speak without the use of oxygen.

“Who are you?”

“You may call me the Librarian.” His voice wraps around the words, making them sound like an invitation. “And you, Mrs. Olafson, are three chapters overdue.”

He uses the honorific ‘Mrs.’ somewhat ironically, knowing that she has styled herself thusly in spite of the fact she has never been married. It is for propriety ... and for a sort of protection.

Sofia’s stomach drops, but her breathing is back to normal. “How do you know my name?”

His gaze flicks to the essays in her arms, then back to her face. “I know all of my patrons.”

“Your ‘patrons’?” She scoffs, but the sound lacks her usual bite. “I’ve never been here before. I didn’t even know there was a here before right now.”

“Are you certain?” He tilts his head, just slightly. “You’ve walked past this corridor and that door almost every day for ten years. You’ve felt it calling to you. You just never let yourself see it, or even listen.”

Sofia’s chest tightens. She has felt it. That strange pull, that moment of hesitation every time she passed the junction. She’d chalked it up to fatigue, to the monotony of her routine. But now —

“What is this place?” she demands, her voice sharper than she intended.

The Librarian smiles. It’s a slow, deliberate thing, like the unfolding of a treasured book. “A library.”

“That’s not an answer,” she claims imperiously.

He shrugs, oh-so nonchalantly. “It’s the only one you’re ready for.”

She wonders at that. “Ready for” rather than “going to get.”

He reaches out, his fingers brushing the spine of a book on the nearest shelf. The leather is black, embossed with silver lettering that gleams in the low light.

She can’t help but look. “The Unfinished Story of Sofia Olafson.”

Sofia’s breath stalls once again. Her name, there, in letters that seem to writhe slightly, as if alive and in pain.

“That’s —” She swallows. “That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it?” His fingers trace the title possessively. He cocks his head ever so slightly, a thoughtful look on his face. “Every book here is a story. Some are finished. Some are still being written.” He glances at her, his gaze dropping to the rapid pulse in her throat. “Yours has been stalled for quite some time.”

Sofia’s face heats. She can feel the flush creeping up her neck, the way it always does when she’s cornered, when her carefully constructed control starts to fray. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested.”

“Aren’t you?” His voice is a caress, dark and knowing. “You’ve spent years pretending you don’t want to be seen, Sofia. And yet ... here you are. And I see you.”

Her first name on his lips sends a jolt through her, sharp and electric. No one calls her Sofia. Not here. Not since ... not since she moved to America. She’s Mrs. Olafson, a title, a barrier. But the way he says it ... like he’s tasted it before, like he knows the weight of it ... makes her skin prickle.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps.

“I know you stand in the shower until the water runs cold, pretending the sting on your skin is punishment enough.” His gaze drops to her left cheek, to the scar there. It is thin and pale, almost invisible. Unless you’re looking for it. “I know you trace that mark in the mirror sometimes, wondering if you deserved it. Or if you want another.”

Sofia’s hand flies to her cheek before she can stop it. The scar is old, a souvenir from her first and most dangerous attempt at rebellion: a drunken night in her early twenties, a man whose name she can’t remember, a slap that turned into a bite that turned into something else entirely. Something that had left her shaking, sore, and alive in a way she’d never been before. Or since.

Because, ever since, she has worked to avoid any such circumstances ... although she slipped once, but that wasn’t entirely her fault.

She’d told herself that first time was an accident. A mistake. But in the dark, when she’s honest, she knows she’d liked it. Too much. She even liked the much less dangerous encounter. And that is why she now runs from them.

The Librarian’s smile deepens, as if he can hear her thoughts. “I know you haven’t even touched yourself in nine years, Sofia. Not since the last time you ... well, when you decided that you would not let yourself feel anything more alive than paper in your hand.”

Her breathing comes faster again, her lungs too tight for proper respiration. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” He steps closer.

She should back away. She really should.

But she doesn’t. She stands there, rooted, as he reaches out, his fingers hovering just above her collarbone. She can feel the warmth of him, the faintest waft of his breath against her skin. “Or is it just the beginning?”

Her hands are trembling, wanting to slap him and make him stop, wanting to reach up and bring that hand down on her porcelain skin.

“You are now thirty-eight years of age, Sofia,” he murmurs. “And, like Miss Jean Brodie, you have decided that you may be past your prime.” His hand hovers, as if indecisive, and he smiles benignly. “But you are not. You are still a very beautiful woman ... a hot-blooded, lust-filled, but self-repressed woman. And you are dying to let yourself experience exactly what you dream about at night, but afraid that it might not match the beauty of those dreams. Is that about right, Sofia?”