Quiet Please: The Sweet Serenity of Books

[TempoPrestissimo]

Even for first thing in the morning, the weather was more than a little on the terrible side. The sky was dark and sleet came down in angry sideways shingles, pelting anyone unlucky enough to be outdoors in it. A figure in a long grey coat walked with the resigned slowness of someone who had left their house about half an hour earlier when the sky was clear, and by now was already such a thorough mess of snow and water that hurrying would have been futile. He stepped under the overhang in front of the library's front doors and took a moment to make an attempt at brushing the ice from his dark hair. His glasses had slipped down his nose and were flecked with droplets enough that he couldn't see through them even if he tried.

With a sigh at his useless lenses he pulled the keys out of his pocket and leaned down to squint at the lock as he fumbled it in and turned it. It opened easily and he stepped inside into the dim silence, sheltered from the storm outside. He flicked the lights on and wiped his shoes on the mat before crossing the room and hanging his coat up in the librarian's office. His name was not the one on the office door; the librarian herself had recently retired, and he had been hired as her replacement. He took a moment to clean his glasses, leaning against the empty desk, before he went out into the main library and closed the office door behind him.

First goal of the day was to orient himself in his new workplace, as well as tidy things up and generally get a feel for how things were going to work. He didn't expect that it would be a very busy day, what with the wretched weather and all. Smiling a little to himself, Sylvan ran a hand through his dark hair and straightened his tie. Time to get to work.

[sheepy]

As was usually the case on days when Mother Nature exposed her cold shoulder in a fit of rage, the tempest took out its frustrations on the bearer of an umbrella. Isadora trudged through the wet streets with great difficulty, her tote bag the ultimate paper-weight against her small frame. Stepping inadvertently on a slick spot on the sidewalk, she skidded, only to have a tremendous gust of wind, studded with the vicious shrapnel of the precipitation, grab hold of her umbrella and turn it inside out. Cursing to herself, she shoved it into the nearest trash bin and scooted into her favourite cafe for sanctuary. Her table, a one-seater, lay nestled in a corner next to the window, complete with a little ‘Reserved’ sign that remained at all times. As she dug through her purse for her handkerchief, depositing instead $5.75 on the table top, the waiter placed her cappuccino and oatmeal raisin cookie in its stead. Finally extracting the polka-dotted mess she had made in home–ec when she was six, she cleaned the water droplets from the lenses of her thick-framed glasses. Marc, the waiter, shook his head and laughed as he brought her the sugar dish. “You are a different woman entirely without your glasses.”

Isadora smiled, blue eyes lively behind the newly polished lenses. “Well of course,” she said, a British accent hugging every syllable, “I’m a blind woman without them, afterall. Keep the--”
“Change, yes, I know. Same tip every day. Enjoy, miss.”
It had taken months to get to this level of interaction with the waiter. Months of awkward stares and vocal paralysis to get to the pivotal point of pleasantries without social anxiety; a success she wished to maintain. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Isadora breathed deeply, the smell of fresh coffee rippling through her almost as quickly as the warmth diffusing from the cup. She sipped, brushing the foam from her upper lip with a napkin. Her glasses slid down her nose, and Isadora noticed with great dismay that the tape holding them together was coming undone. Too much sentimental value to buy another pair... that, and too much money. The window was streaked with the drizzle from outside, blurring the edges of all figures passing in the street. She had about 20 minutes left until the librarian would open the doors to her favourite of all favourite places. A quiet fortress of hundreds of books, thousands of pages, and millions of words, a symphony of information, a realm of perfect solitude and silence, a separate universe entirely of intermingled fiction and fact, a historical repertoire of--

oh... new guy?

Isadora cut off her reverie at the sight of a man unlocking the library doors. Checking the date briefly on the calendar that hung on the cafe’s far wall, she confirmed; the retirement officially started today, and with it, a replacement. She nibbled contemplatively on her cookie, wondering whether or not the old librarian had mentioned the establishment’s permanent fixture: her. Hurrying across the street as fast as the weather would permit, she ducked into the library, and pressed her back to the doors while catching her breath. Her brown hair was in dishevelled disarray, damp and windblown, and her glasses askew. She smoothed back whatever pieces of her bun hadn’t come apart in the trek before heading towards the stairs that led to the upper level. The library was one of the oldest buildings in the town, with the old brick work providing a cool but cozy atmosphere. There was an antique armchair made of a faded, cracked leather, positioned near a shelf of encyclopaedias. It was tucked into a corner, almost completely obscured by a heavy drape swept to the side of a huge nearby window. The perfect place for a quiet lady.

[TempoPrestissimo]

Sylvan worked both quickly and quietly, replacing books that patrons had taken down the day before. Somehow he didn’t think he would be seeing many people today, and that was certainly fine by him. As much as he liked people (and he honestly did) some days silence was a blessing. Well, at least exterior silence. His ear had caught some fugue on the radio on his way out of the house, and he whistled sections softly to himself as it paraded around the inside of his head. At some point in time he was sure it would fade out into another song or spawn a spontaneous composition on his own end, but music was a comforting thing and he was glad for what others might consider an annoyance.

The song seemed to take the second option as he worked. He was rather glad for the lack of people
for another reason; it was taking him several times longer than normal to get the job done as he was still getting oriented and, well…he had a tendency to get distracted when his eyes caught something of interest. No matter; it wasn’t as though he had anything demanding his attention except for the lunch he had brought and possibly a game of solitaire. Outside the wind rattled windows and pelted them with whatever the proper name for frozen knife-blades of ice was, but none of that was on his mind at the moment. Just books and daydreams and music.

It was quite a while until he ended up on the upper floor, and he didn’t mind that in the slightest. There was no point in rushing when he would end up out of work to do. On a normal day there would be others working as well, but, with the weather, and the lack of patrons…he really wasn’t worried. No, it sounded heavenly to him, the idea of keeping this place to himself for the day. It was just after this thought passed through his head that he realized it technically wasn’t going to happen; while he was bent over restocking a shelf, his glasses had tumbled off of his nose, and it was while he was on his knees retrieving them that he saw the other pair of shoes. He blinked, curiously, and righted himself, dusting off the knees of his slacks. Female, from the shoes, and sitting off in the corner.

He debated going to talk to them at all. He had been enjoying his silence, but sociability was sort of the norm for him and he felt habit tugging him in that direction. Habit, and, oddly enough, the books that he was replacing seemed to tend over that way as time went on. Fate then. The idea passed his mind quickly, a faint smile lighting his lips before fading away as well. Besides, if someone was going to brave this kind of weather for books, they were probably worth his time to know.

“H-hello…” Sylvan spoke quietly, hoping not to startle the woman where she sat. She looked a little weatherworn, and her glasses were taped, but she was quite pretty, if in a quiet way. He bit his lip and struggled to keep his eyes from falling down to his feet. He liked people, he did…but sometimes he was so shy it frustrated himself.

[sheepy]

The library housed a collection of encyclopaedias bound in dark red hard covers. The oldest ones were large, filling the chair when open, the smell of aged papers musty but comforting. Though they were not the most up to date in information or in some cases the most informative, Isadora loved their character the same way she would revere and elderly professor over a glossy printed page with the perfume of fresh ink. Despite the incorrect citations and thirteen spelling errors in one 400 page volume, Isadora ran a hand across the bevelled letters fondly. She loved little anomalies like perfect imperfections—American spelling in Canadian books, French accents in a name turned the wrong way, three digit dates where a fourth was misplaced, giving a false air of mystery to the date of a philosopher’s demise; granted, his theories lived on, so perhaps he never died at all. The meticulously pristine pages were the only thing she valued as much as the additional context in the newer models, but due to the sole fact that her own spine ached and spirit bent with dog-eared pages and cracked books. Flipping through the yellowed pages of text, she was searching for page 67; someone had carelessly taped it back in towards the 90s, and the diagram was of particular interest to her. She hadn’t picked up the book in months, so she couldn’t recall where the diagram had been haphazardly replaced, but she had enough of an approximation to go by. The beauty of a photographic memory. Isadora had read every encyclopaedia in the library, from every publisher and publication date, and she remembered all of the details inscribed within. Such was the reason she could relate to an older professor but not garner a similar respect from her peers- she herself was 23 with a PhD , working on another research paper before she began to formally lecture. She hated the connotation of ‘gifted’. Thus the love of books over people. Yes, she was stalling her career to avoid public speaking.

Unlike a human being, a book cannot judge you, but you yourself can judge a book, she thought, smiling to herself with a giddy little clap as she found the diagram smushed between pages 92 and 93. Pleased with her comrade’s faithful servitude, she clung to the encyclopaedia and breathed in the musky smell. And my only judgement is that you never fail me!

Withdrawing from her bag a thick spiral notebook and a pen, she began to sketch out the diagram, labelling it with little notes as she saw fit among further citations and other references. A chaotic network of arrows and her elegant, tilty scrawl left barely any portion of her page blank, highlighted and embellished with a series of colourful sticky notes... her guilty pleasure. There was a soft clatter near the curtain. As Isadora looked up, brushing a stray fringe of hair from her eyes, she dropped her pen. It rolled in a casual arc around her high-heeled mary janes, and made a soft click as it gently collided with a pair of glasses. Glasses?

What an odd thing to leave on the floor. Reaching for her pen, she came face to face with a stranger, sending off a thousand reflexive responses whirring out of control. The gears in her brain jammed and steamed, her eyes wide. Flinching back into the armchair, she stared at the man with pursed lips. She liked people in theory, but she was an unfortunate flavour of socially inept, rendered completely silent or prone to spouting off recited bits of history or science, sometimes in other languages. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Was this the new librarian? Oh dear. He... said hello. Rather delicately too, what a conscientious individual. But was she stuck? He seemed as shy as she was, which was reassuring and greatly less obtrusive than many of the other individuals she had been approached by before. Her glasses slid down the slender bridge of her nose again, and she pushed them back in place with a trembling index finger. Was she stuck? Or could she actually choke out a hello?

“P.Sherman, 42, Wallaby Way, Sydney.”

Saving your settings... Isadora is shutting down... *click*

With a facepalm, Isadora groaned, peeking apologetically between her fingers. Against her will, she was stuck.

[TempoPrestissimo]

Sylvan blinked a few times as the woman collected herself, feeling his pulse racing along in his throat, his previously comfortable suit now utterly confining as he tried to breathe. Had he done something wrong? He had startled her, that much was obvious, and he immediately felt terrible for it. That hadn’t been his intention at all…and now the poor woman was sitting there, wide-eyed and silent. Had he frightened her? Worse yet, had be broken her? “I...ah… I’m quite sorry…” He managed, quietly, his hand immediately going to his glasses, just like they did every time he was nervous.

When the woman finally did speak, it was now him who was left stunned, blinking and trying to associate her words with some sort of context. When they finally clicked, he chuckled a little, then covered his mouth quickly, embarrassed, trying to suppress the flush of colour on his pale cheeks. His brain was slow to correct, and he hastily dropped his hand, biting his lip to stop the rest of his laughter and he fiddled with straightening his tie as his brain turned back on.

The woman’s reactions were interesting; from the groan and the way she covered her face, it was as if her reaction frustrated her on its own. Poor woman…Sylvan knew the symptoms of social anxiety, having to deal with many of them himself. Frustration was a likely response if she was trying to communicate with him. Sylvan gave the silence a moment to reign, hopefully giving her nerves a chance to relax, before he spoke again. “You can take your time, it’s okay….I… I know…” A hand gesture from his youth, when the problems had been worse; one hand toying with the hem of his vest, the other pointing between the two of them, the same problem. “It happens, so…don’t worry, okay…?” He said with the same shy smile. A hand ran through his dark hair nervously as he faltered again, and then he took a tentative step forward and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, miss…”

[sheepy]

P. Sherman, 42, Wallaby way, Sydney? Seriously?! P. Sherman, 42, Wallaby way, Sydney?! Glory, she was getting worse. Unbelievable.

Her glasses threatened to slide again, and she repositioned them for the umpteenth time. She looked at the man whom it seemed she had inadvertently made unduly uncomfortable. His pulse thrummed through his neck, she could see it. Fidgeting... a sign of discomposure. She was an idiot, it was obvious, but why on earth was he flushing so brightly, stumbling over his words?

Granted, the lucky gentleman was actually capable of articulating an apology, and goodness knows Isadora was trying her best to reciprocate. Though an apology was completely unnecessary on his part. I’m terribly sorry for my stupidity, my name is Isadora. Go on, say it! the poor bloke’s as edgy as you are. He continued to fidget, and Isadora twirled a button on the sleeve of her blouse with embarrassment in return. Awkward silence... how lovely. Then he spoke again, and as soon as the falter and gesture between them made, Isadora understood. She watched his hands, and studied the bone structure of his face, the kinaesthetic integrity of his step forward, the invitation for acquaintance.

Isadora extended her hand towards his, slender, pale and trembling slightly in the aftermath of utter surprise. Her nails were simply manicured, and the fingers that gripped his hand were still cold from her sprint across the street. She blinked through a dense fan of dark eyelashes and opened her mouth for the mentally rehearsed My name is Isadora Young. Silence. My name is Isadora Young. COME ON!

Her voice, soft and scarcely audible, came without further eye contact, as her gaze dropped to her notebook.

"M-m-my-m-my n-name is I-I-Isadora Young"
It's a pleasure to meet you.

Her eyes darted from her notes to the floor, her shoes, his shoes, her notes, and gradually back to his eyes. He had a demeanour about him she appreciated, gentle and unobtrusive, and she hoped against all odds that perhaps she would get to know him.
Best start with his name.
"Y-y-yourself?"

No sooner did she stammer the query did the grandfather clock in the corner of the room chime out a resonating gong to announce the hour. By her watch, it was 11 o'clock in the morning. after the eighth chime, the clock seemed to choke and sputter as much as the two in the corner. Isadora jumped at the sound, vaguely akin to a mechanical gurgle, and got to her feet, smoothing her skirt. She moved around the man, the pleats swirling around her legs. She observed out of the corner of her eye that he was nearly a head taller than she was. Isadora reached for the oil painting that hung near the clock, tilting the frame to release an old-fashioned key. The clock continued to gurgle next to her, chiming for 17 o'clock. She stood on tiptoe and turned the key in a small groove behind the clock's face. The chiming stopped for its usual ticking, and the femme returned the key to its hiding place. The sound of boots and sneezes, intermingled with the squeaky laughter of children echoed downstairs as a woman and the excitable preschoolers of down the street entered the quiet sanctity of the library. Quickly returning to her corner, she tore a piece of paper from her notebook and scribbled out the following, handing it to the librarian with a small smile.

11:00 - 12:00: Sister Margaret and co.; One distraction required while children's section restocked. Read aloud time before book return and check out. *HINT*

12:06: Sister Margaret returns for Billy, who will be found hiding with his gameboy behind a bookcase

12:10: Silence resumes

1:00: Group of three elderly ladies, highly critical and boisterous.

1:37: Newspaper and Magazine Company will notify you of a delivery delay; shipment pending for tomorrow.

With that, Isadora collected her things and shoved them back into her massive satchel before digging about for another item. She tucked a colourful picture book entitled "Stuff" by Robert Munsch under her arm, slung the bag over her shoulder, and trotted towards the lobby. There was a little cheer and a collective "Good mooorning Isadoooowahhh" before the scuffle of shoes faded into another room.

[TempoPrestissimo]

Isadora Young… Sylvan swallowed a smile, one far too pleased to make sense in context, and instead smiled much more gently. Of course, she had asked the same of him, and he should follow that with an introduction of his own. His hand folded gently over hers, already warmed through from his exploring, his work. They were an academic’s hands, pale, and soft…unmarked. Far more familiar with textbooks and keyboards than hard labour. He barely had a chance to feel her chilly but pleasant hand in his before the clock decided to have its rather attention-grabbing fit of schizophrenia. Sylvan released her hand sharply, his twilight-blue eyes shooting open wide and looking at the clock in surprise. It had startled him, of course…but his expression quickly turned puzzled when it kept chiming. He quickly stepped back, out of the way, when Isadora rose.

He watched, curious, as Isadora retrieved the key from its hiding place and neatly restored the clock to its former mental health. The renewed ticking eased his nerves; the sound of the bells had set him more than a little on edge. No sooner was their comparative silence, now tempered with the sound of children, then the woman seemed to have to go. She ripped a scrap of paper, scribbled on it, and pressed it into shyly into his hands with a small smile. He smiled back, feeling colour rise in his cheeks and was more than a little frozen as she collected her things. He had just managed to recollect his wits, his mouth opening to speak to her, when she hurried off back in the direction of the children’s voices.

Sylvan read over the note, his eyes flicking back and forth for the second or so it took for him to get through it. Well, that was certainly helpful of her… He pulled a pen out from the inner pocket of his jacket and searched his other pockets for several moments until he found paper of his own. A book list, of course. He ripped off the bottom half of the paper and bent over the table, writing his response in elegant, neat loops.

---

IWR -300.00
Irwin, Sylvan
“Proper Introductions and Sincere Thanks”
Ch. 12:15 PM

---

He left the note on the table, part nervous, part confident she would get the joke. He went about the rest of his work (first and foremost restocking the children’s section as she had noted) with a faint smile on his lips and a distracted light in his eyes. Isadora Young. He could almost still feel her cool, soft hand in his own, the way she smelled like well-loved old books… He may not have had a chance to talk to her, but he hoped to.

[sheepy]

The squeaking of rubber-soled boots and the sound of scrunchy, puffy water-proof winter coats were as loud as the group's “quiet indoor voices” as they tottered into a large, yellow room with a colourful area rug. Isadora bid the nun a soft good morning and dragged a stool near the old oak rocking chair in the corner. The children hung their coats up on a rack with little hooks and plopped cross-legged in a semi-circle around the chairs. Sister Margaret sat wearily in the armchair, the stamina needed to shepherd the group evident through the lines etched in her face. Isadora took a headcount while the children assembled, and noted that two were missing.

“Another two chicken pox casualties this week, Sister?”

“Goodness no, child, another three. Brother Thomas caught them too, poor fellow,” the woman chuckled, shaking her head. “Though we both know he’s as much a child as the rest, hardly a surprise.”
Isadora grinned, but her reply was cut short by a little girl tugging on her skirt. “Isadowah, what are we weading today?”

Setting herself down on the stool, Isadora opened the book wide without cracking the spine and began to read. The room was full of tiny giggles at the silliest parts of the story. She took her time, allowing the children to absorb the illustrations with eager eyes and toothless smiles. Looking up, she would occasionally peek through the gaps in the bookshelf that separated the children’s section from the main library for possible glimpses of the new librarian. She saw him pass by once or twice, and with the soft squeaking of floorboards mentally mapped his route around the library, though she didn’t know why she did. As the story concluded, Isadora pulled a red three-ring binder out of her bag, card place-holders with each child’s name tacked to dividers. She filed away the children’s returns and reselections, adding to the absentee page to nix a possible late penalty. The little ones ran around the room, showing each other their new picture book, a few scurrying up to the femme and asking “is this one good?”

Soon enough, she was zipping zippers and stuffing books into backpacks, lining the children up for their departure. They ran out to the front and began to shove through the doors, Sister Margaret waving and calling after them as she dashed out of the building into the chilly tempest with a thank-you over her shoulder. Isadora shook her head with amusement and put her belongings back in her pack. She surveyed the room, listening for the bleep-bloop of a videogame, and determined that Billy was behind the north-most shelf that particular day. She reclaimed her seat and checked the time; sure enough, Sister Margaret was bursting through the library doors again at 12:06, wide eyed and panicked, with Billy’s freckled face soon emerging from his hiding place with the nun’s help at Isadora’s gesture. The usual scolding and repeated thanks from Sister Margaret brought her to 12:10, at which time she took her leave to return to her corner. She doubted to find him there, though a part of her hoped she would. Their momentum in introduction success had been derailed by the children, and she was still without a name. Much to her surprise, there was a note left on the table she had vacated, elegant cursive gracing the page with... how quaint! Isadora laughed, the Dewey Decimal system flashing a social science code at her with an inviting book reference.

Sylvan Irwin...She studied the note, gears turning in her head, as she tried to learn as much about the man as she could through what little she had. By what she remembered from an etymology text, Sylvan referred to a deity of the woods, established from a reference in the 1500s with Latin and Greek influences depending on the spelling, associated with Pan in mythology, whose character was obvious enough... and his surname... American folklore folly aside, a definition from the early 1900s would have defined a ‘low-brow’, or one lacking intellect. She bit back a smile; a low-brow was certainly not the case. Before she could delve into graphology and pick apart his handwriting, the clock showed 12:14.

Isadora’s pulse sped up with a combination of anticipation and nervousness. She had things to show the librarian to get him settled, but for some reason she wanted to know him further. At the very least, she would love to have a conversation with him about books... assuming, of course, that she could spout out a proper sentence the next time she were to speak with him. Little by little, the second hand on the rambunctious old clock drew closer to 12:15. Isadora began to write, a slight tingle still in the fingers that had gripped his hand earlier.

[TempoPrestissimo]

Sylvan worked quickly and quietly in Isadora's absence, not for any reason than his hands and body could easily feign fluidity and control while his mind was off occupied with other business. Namely, the business of the lovely Isadora. What an interesting creature. Anxious and brilliant and beautiful. And she seemed to know the library very well, which would prove useful. Sylvan puttered around, restocking shelves, getting sidetracked by curiosity, helping the occasional patron with questions or concerns. The weather was still atrocious outside... He could hear it rattling the windows and see the daggers of ice whipping by on the wind. Looking at it made him shiver in remembrance of his own battle with the weather and sympathy for those who were still out in it. Chances are, he would not be walking home... And he had yet to purchase a car of his own after selling his last one. Perhaps he would call a cab home...

Sylvan's eyes constantly darted towards the various clocks that were tacked throughout the library, or to his watch when he was knelt down dealing with books on lower shelves. He was curious. It was like reading an excerpt of an intriguing book; last time he had done that it haunted him for ages. going over and over every word, every nuance, gleaning it for whatever he could, whatever nourishment was there. Isadora presented him with a similar problem. That was why he wanted to talk to her again. Had to talk to her again. Otherwise it was going to drive him absolutely crazy.

So he kept watching the clock, his blue eyes flicking between that and his work, his body going on quick and fluid autopilot. He helped patrons with a shy smile and calm grace, but his mind wasn't on it. He had hoped to meet her back at her table early (negative social sciences aside, it would have been polite), but he was held up by a rather anxiety ridden teenage boy looking for last minute books for some rather large independent study project. Sylvan was a little impatient, but he was also sympathetic; he was never that student in school, but his friends had been, and he had always tried to help. It was 12:17 by the time he had finished.

"My goodness, I am so sorry... I hadn't meant to keep you waiting." He apologized hastily, appearing from behind a bookshelf as he spoke, one of his hands toying with the end of his tie. "Please forgive my being so rude... " He was faintly red, and his smile was even more hesitant then when they had met. He really was quite sorry for being even so slightly late.

[sheepy]

Her pen sputtered and choked, blobs of ink forming grotesque tumours on her otherwise seamless cursive. Isadora glared at the utensil, unimpressed. She took the pen apart, tapped the ink well, and reassembled it. Page four, Thursday, copyright Young Scheduling, patent pending; beginning from opening hour to closing, down to the exact minute. Procedure, placement, policy, sub-code, cross-referenced with the library handbook. Isadora was a creature of habit- a lover of routine, with an adoration of precision and punctuality. She never expected it from anyone else, regardless of their intellectual prowess. It came to her as no surprise that Sylvan would not be present when the second hand nudged the minute’s arm to the three’s position. ‘Friday’, she scrawled, underlined, and arranged a table. The headings were capitalized as events and corresponding action, location, and further reference. Perhaps this would be useless to him—cast aside as the ravings of a socially inept OCD lunatic. As if that would be new. Whispers from bygone years echoed in her head, the mounting anxiety instigating the instinct to flee. No, no, silly girl, she chided, you’ve done far too much to leave here now. She reclined slightly in the ancient arm chair, relishing the reality check prickle of a bobby pin sticking her in the back of the head. Pull yourself together.

12:16.

With a disposition of nigh paralleled nervousness, it was possible he got sidetracked. It was possible he forgot. It was possible that he had some pulling together to do himself. Or, Isadora mused, amazed at her own stupidity, maybe he just had to deal with a patron. Or was just finishing off a restock. Or a phone call. Glory, she was foolish.

‘Saturday’...underline... table... filled.

Footnote: closed on Sundays.

She tucked a stray tendril of hair back into her chignon. Time was a slow moving beast. A siren, a temptress, that both mocked and imprisoned, ensnared and insulted. Sloth was a mask in anticipation.

Introductions and proper thanks... then what? What kind of conversation could she offer? Her backstory was hardly one of interest. Dared she ask about his? What could she really discuss? The abysmal weather, her research, her nervous fidgeting that OH GOOD GLORY WERE HER BUTTONS DONE UP EVENLY?! *ahem* I repeat, grumbled the relatively stable section of her consciousness, pull. Yourself. Together.

12:17.

You’re paranoid, and ridiculous. Just another human being. Just another librarian.

“"My goodness, I am so sorry... ”

Bookshelves don’t speak. Isadora jumped, her hand zooming across Saturday’s page in a flourishing line of startled awkwardness. Deer in headlights all over again. “I hadn't meant to keep you waiting."

Emerging from the shelf, sure enough, was Sylvan, face flushed, fiddling with his tie. "Please forgive my being so rude... "

Isadora’s pulse thrummed in her chest as she processed the words. Reply sequence, activated.

“N-n-no t-trouble,” she stammered, gesturing to the chair across from her, “W-would you c-c-c-care to j-j-join m-me?”

Her eyes darted uncertainly from the librarian to the chair, the papers in front of her, her lap, and back. Please say something. She pushed the thick-rimmed glasses up the slender bridge of her nose and blinked, eyelashes nearly skimming the lenses. Her uncertain gaze fixated itself back to him.
Hello, I am a hopeless bucket of nerves, pleasure to meet you, please oblige me with the courtesy of silence only if I’m the one who gets to stay silent! Oh come now, please say something.

[TempoPrestissimo]

Sylvan had clearly startled her badly, and it was clear on his face that he felt terrible about it. "I'm sorry for having startled you... Do you need a moment? You are more than worth the wait, miss, I am certain." He smiled just a little, shyly. Sylvan spoke quietly, slowly, his voice as nonthreatening as the rest of his demeanor. The poor woman was so easy to make timid, it was a shame. There was so little he seemed to be able to do to calm her. She had an awfully sweet voice though, even if it was nervous.

"Well, t-thank you..." Sylvan stammered as he made his way to the seat across from her. She had notes and the like laid out in front of her, something she had been working on. Some sort of table? It wasn't his business, so he didn't look at it too long. That left her as his main point of attention, though his glances to her were short and shy before his eyes flickered down to his shoes, then to his hands, then back to her. She was very pretty, in a scared sort of way... Best not to think of that, though. He was having a hard enough time concentrating as it was.

"If I might ask, miss... Though it's hardly any of my business... What is it you are working on? You seem so incredibly organized... I'm quite impressed, and perhaps a little envious..." Sylvan's joke was nervous, but his smile was genuine. "And your handwriting is lovely..." So much for him not looking at her work! Damn his curiosity! Why did she have to be so fascinating? Certainly he had a little more practice at this whole 'being social' thing than she seemed to, but that was years of therapy at work. Still, it wasn't gone... And it had been so long since he spoke to another academic... He craved discussion, interaction...anything!

[sheepy]

A moment? Yes, perhaps, and several more if she were to get over the subtle piercing of his eyes. Foolish, foolish girl, get it together. Isadora’s eyes locked on Sylvan as he spoke, her hand completing the work for her as if by a separate mechanism. She thanked him quietly for the compliments, her cheeks flushing slightly against her will. No one had ever considered her well worth any wait. Ever. How intriguing. What was she working on? A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she skimmed the page. She reached into her bag and pulled out a hole-puncher, slipping the tables into an ordered stack and sliding them into place.

“This,” she said, “may b-be considered a h-h-housewarming t-token, i-if you wish.”

Standing up, she pushed on the device with her full weight, the metallic crunch confirmation of successful perforation. Isadora filed the papers into a clear cover left on her table, and presented it to him with trembling hands.

“y-you will come to f-find that the h-h-happenings of the l-library are rather mundane and r-repetitive. Outlined in your d-directory is essentially w-what to e-expect until you be-become more a-adjusted. And I a-assure you g-good sir my organizational skills a-are nothing t-to be envious o-of,” she rubbed the back of her neck, “rather a p-personal annoyance, in all honesty.” Please recognize my pathetic attempts at humour, please recognize my pathetic attempts at humour...

That was when she caught it. A hunger, a thirst. An insatiable longing, the telltale nervous tick manifested through a surging curiosity ravaging his insides like a desert drought. No human being, particularly of the male species, ever shows interest in another individual’s handwriting and paperwork, unless either trying to cheat on an examination or desperately in need of intellectual sustenance. Very well, she mused, challenge accepted. She took a deep breath and stared at her hands, folded on the table, mind abuzz with things to say and searching for the means to say them. She glanced back at Sylvan, then, body aquiver with nerves, cleared her throat and refocused on her pen. Yes, talk to the pen.

“P-p-please forgive me the r-rashness of the f-f-following statement, but I m-must inquire to the n-nature of your leisure reading, u-unless of course you have a more p-p-pressing inquiry in which case I openly welcome you t-to pose interrogation. I’ve never b-been a stickler to the whole ladies first business myself and will take n-n-no offense nor p-particular preference.”
She heaved a sigh. It was like her first order at the bistro. It took her over an hour and a half to tell the napkin she’d like tea and a scone. While this was an accomplishment, and a personal best, the incessant stammer plucked at her sense of etiquette and frustrated her beyond comprehension.

[TempoPrestissimo]

Sylvan watched as she gathered her papers, hole punched them, and presented them to him with trembling hands. He took the gift in both of his own, as gently as he could, and examined first page through the clear cover. It was a beautifully simple and organized list, a table, of everything he could ever possibly need to know to run the library smoothly. A wave of honest and sincere relief swept through him. The lovely miss had just helped him out a great deal more than she would likely know any time soon... And her touch of humour, however self-deprecating, did make him smile just a bit.

"Thank you." Sylvan said, pressing his glasses up his nose gently with his fingertips. "This is truly a great deal of help." He pulled his eyes from her handiwork to look at the woman responsible for it. He brushed his dark hair out of his eyes, a gesture of nervousness, but was happy to find that most of his fear had fled. After all, if he focused on trying to make her feel more at ease, he didn't have time to be nervous. Still, her question took him a little by surprise, and he uttered a quiet, startled laugh and turned a faint shade of red. "I... I'm not certain what you mean..." Either it was her making fun of his looking over her work when he should not really have been (had it been that obvious...?!) or she was asking an honest question and he wasn't sure how to answer. What did he like to read? Everything. Sylvan was an absolutely voracious consumer of information.

He did shake his head though, a small smile still on his lips. "I am a bit of a stickler for ladies first, to be honest... But I'm more than happy to keep that in mind for you, miss." Her stutter didn't bother him, but it made him endeavor to keep his own voice even calmer, even softer, even more inviting, still trying to ease her into calm if he could. Such beauty shouldn't have to be so tense... And, if he should ever be lucky to hear it, he thought she might have a wonderful laugh when she was not so nervous.

[sheepy]

Isadora should have known. She exhaled quickly and collected herself. Small talk was seriously not her forte, and she'd learned especially over the years of failed social interactions that sometimes it was best only to speak when spoken to. Alas, as it were, Sylvan had left it up to her to generate conversation. Latching on to the only possible shield she had, she dove in, hoping for the best.

"W-well, I-I read, er... everything." She glanced over the frames of her glasses, sliding them back along the narrow bridge of her nose. "I've read every page of every book in this library. And," she added sheepishly, "quite a few others."

She blinked, colour rushing into her cheeks. Isadora quickly looked down at the table and her knotted fingers. She prayed he would take the cue that now was his turn. A part of her also prayed he wouldn't ask her just exactly how many others 'quite a few' entailed. Truth was, it was one of many reasons she left England.

Isadora did not descriminate between author, genre, or type of text. She'd read them all for her personal reference, some more out of pleasure than educational need. But hers was a taste that was difficult to satisfy. Like an insatiable thirst, an inherent longing. For the longest time, books were all she had. Ancient words of people long past and times, places, entire worlds beyond her reach. It fascinated her as much as people did. She vaguely remembered a time, as a child, when she had asked what was she to do if not read every book there was in the store. The shopkeeper had laughed and encouraged her to find a better use for her time-- until Isadora proved him wrong. She had been six. years old, at the time.

Just in case, she added, "Y-y-y-y-y-your turn."

[TempoPrestissimo]

Sylvan hadn't realized his error, when he failed to continue speaking, Isadora felt pressured to answer the question that hung between them. He hadn't meant to do that to her... he had just forgotten to continue, so wrapped up as he was in being nervous. He mentally berated himself for the mistake, the only sign that he was doing so a faint scowl on his lips that he quickly dismissed. He didn't want Isadora thinking him upset with her, or her answer. He listened very patiently through her stammering as he slowly collected her words, happy in general for the fact that she had decided him worthy of an answer at all. “I can't say I've even barely gotten started here, though there are a number I have already read....” He said in response to her comment about having read every book under the library's roof. He was impressed but not surprised.

“I read what I can, whenever I can. I just...” He sighed, looking down at his feet, pushing up his glasses, fiddling for a moment with his tie, “I love knowledge.” He said quietly. “I may not like every book that crosses my path, but I find the written word has a high inherent base value... But my desire for knowledge extends beyond books, even if they are my utmost favourite way to obtain it.” He kept his own shakiness at bay by speaking quietly and looking at almost anything but the woman he was speaking to.

He took a steadying breath and smiled at her, “You are quite a ways ahead of me for this place, then. Perhaps, when it comes time to add new additions, you can help me pick things you have not yet read? I would like to find some way to entertain you, if I could, if only for a night or two, as I can't imagine it would take you long to finish anything that I order in...” Had he not been talking about books, that sentence could have meant something else entirely, but he didn't seem to even notice it. Looking at her presented a problem to him. She had a simple, understated beauty that was hard to look away from, and it was only when he felt the heat of blush crawl into his cheeks that he hastily looked away again.