Salamander

The smell of incense doesn't do much to mask the lingering scent of dust in Ms. Maisel's bookshop.

The four by three foyer has shelves for walls, and is mainly decorated with plant pots in crochet hangers, rusty trinkets, and crystals of all colours. They catch the light coming in from the stained glass windows.

I find it hard to spot, presumably, Ms. Maisel at the counter.

She has volumous, curly grey hair, tied with a tie-dye scarf. A tasselled belt holds a long, deep blue dress at the waist.

She startles when I clear my throat to announce my arrival.

'Good afternoon. May I assist you, my dear?'

Ms. Maisel's timbre is sweet, and the lines on her eyes deepen when she smiles at me. The calm features give me the impression she's a generally happy person.

I explain I'm looking for a comprehensive on mythological creatures for a book I'm writing.

'Goodness! You writers have such imagination,' she humours, turning on her heel, and draws open a curtain, 'I wish I had some of it, sometimes'.

The purple drapery leads to a dark, jumbled passage. I follow her hurried pace, trying not to knock the stacks of books piled along the walls.

'My sister's grandson is always playing with ants. Says they make better societies than we do. Imagine that!' She pauses, and her entire body does to. 'My youngest, of course!' Then bursts in laughter.

I refrain from informing her ants are, in fact, infinitely better than humans at a number of things. For whatever reason, I always feel the need to enable elders. Some, I find their knowledge gets stuck with time. They do, however, understand the world in a way I am fairly uneducated about.

Reaching the end, she steps through an identical curtain. What's their purpose?

Surely, any books important enough to be kept from light, won't be sitting on the floor waiting to be kicked by an unsuspecting patron.

Of course, it could just mean there's no room available anywhere else.

Sunny light enters unabashedly through clear glass windows, illuminating a wide room. This one has triple the number of brown shelves, and they align in aisles. Red carpet runs along the wooden floor.

'There you go, dear,' she points to a corridor marked Historical & Mythological. 'You can find everything on that sort of thing here.'

Ms. Maisel heads back, and I begin my search.

Some titles peak my interest: Gods of Greek Mythology, The Sea & its Legends around the Globe, and The Masks of the Great Goddess.

'I believe this might help you,' a male voice says behind me.

Stored somewhere deep, my mind has memories of that voice. I turn to face whoever took me by surprise.

His expression is slightly nervous, and he's giving me a crooked grin. His dark hair is short, the hairline has deepened at the sides, yet his beard remains well-kept.

'Dorian?!'

We haven't seen each other in nearly five years.

I go for what is, undoubtedly, an awkward hug. He reciprocates, as uneasy as me, and I hold back a mawkish smile.

Dorian hands me a tan coloured book with golden letters that read A Compendium of Bestiarum Vocabulum.

I leaf through it, absentmindedly.