her best to keep it stocked with new books. She loved everything about the library, and if sometimes she wished she could wave her wand (not that she had one anymore, but if she did) and set everything to rights - spruce up those shabby couches in the reading corners, replace the antiquated computers that still flashed with black and green monitors, create a proper storytelling stage with a puppet theater for the little kids - she could still console herself with the inky smell of new books, the dusty musk of old ones, and the way the late-afternoon sunlight flowed through the glass windows. The library was on prime beachfront property; the reference room had a spectacular view of the ocean, and once in a while Ingrid would make a point of stopping by the small, cozy nook just to look at the waves crashing on the beachhead.
Unfortunately it was this same breathtaking view that threatened the library's very existence. Recently North Hampton's mayor had made not-so-unsubtle noises that selling off the prime beachfront property would be the easiest way to pay off the city's mounting debts. Ingrid was not opposed to the project per se, but she had heard that the mayor thought it might be a fine idea to do away with the library altogether, now that so much information was available online. The bureaucratic destruction of her precious library was too distressing to think about, and Ingrid tried not to feel too helpless that morning.
Thank goodness nothing terrible had happened at Freya's engagement party last Sunday. For a moment there Ingrid had been worried when one of the floral arrangements inexplicably caught on fire, but a quick-thinking waiter doused the flames with a pitcher of iced tea and no more harm was done. The fire was Freya's doing of course, her nerves causing havoc with her untamed magic. Understandable that Freya would be skittish about making a commitment of this magnitude, but she usually displayed better control, especially after centuries of living under the restriction. For now, Ingrid was just glad to be back at work and the routine of her daily life, finding comfort in the familiar. It had not been so long ago when her life had been quite different, when her work had been exciting and unusual. But that was the past, and it was best not to dwell on it too much.
The library was not merely the usual suburban outpost, at least. Upon its establishment, thanks to a generous bequest from a grande dame of the neighborhood, it also housed one of the foremost collections of architectural drawings in the country, as many famous designers had built homes in the area. As an archivist, Ingrid was responsible for preserving the work for posterity, which meant setting up a steam tent where the drawings were unrolled; and once they were moisturized, flattened, and dried, she tucked them away in drawers under linen. She had one under the plastic tent now, the paper soaking up all that moisture. Archiving was tedious and repetitive-injury making, so Ingrid liked to take a break by walking around, shelving books.
Tabitha Robinson, the middle-aged librarian for young adult books, a bright, cheerful woman with a passion for children's literature, stopped for a friendly chat when they chanced upon each other in the aisles. Ingrid was very fond of Tabitha, who was efficient and professional and took her job seriously. When Tabitha wasn't reading the latest coming-of-age novel, she had a weakness for what Ingrid dubbed "man-chesters," romance novels featuring shirtless hunks on the cover. Bodice rippers (heaving cleavage bursting out of corsets) were passe. These days it was all about the beefcake. To each her own, Ingrid thought. Her guilty pleasures involved historical sagas: anything concerning those quarreling Tudors got her vote. They exchanged the usual cozy pleasantries and town gossip shared by old friends and colleagues when Tabitha's cell phone vibrated. "Oh! It's the doctor's office," she beamed. "Sorry, I have to take this," she said as she walked away hurriedly, her long braid swinging down her back.
Ingrid picked up the next book to put away - tsk tsk, another doorstop-heavy tome from that local author who was something of a pest. He had thrown a hissy fit to find his books heaped in the cardboard boxes left in front of the library for patrons to take for free. But what could she do? They only kept books that were in regular circulation on the shelves. No one