"Maple!"

  She froze, a dusty tome precariously balanced against her fingertips as she stood on tiptoe. Her hand drew back as though the book had burned her, and shrunk down and back. The book clattered open-faced onto the worn rug. With a grimace she turned to face her fuming brother.

  "Hi, Peppermint," she said sheepishly, nearly whispering.

  "Are you reading them again?"

  "I..."

  Maple looked around the sleep shelves, searching for an answer that was better than the truth. Peppermint held up a hand, stopping her search. He had already found his own answer. With quick, clicking steps, he descended the stairs into the basement archives. She flinched when he snatched the fallen book to examine the cover.

  Peppermint de Provence was a tall, narrow man with sharp features and prominent bones, unlike his stout and chubby younger sister. Maple had a soft, round face with a slash of freckles. They both had curly pink hair, but Peppermint's swooped and swirled, while Maple's was a cloud of pink curls about her head. They also shared dark pink eyes behind glasses, hers doing and his horn-rimmed, and he was glaring down at her through them now.

  "Maple," he said with a sigh that made her shrink more. "How many times must I remind you that reading these books will ever amount to anything. You are wasting your time, and mine."

  "I just thought that, as the Archivist, I should know the contents of the books. Just in case some has a... question..." The words died on her lips under his withering gaze.

  "Your only job, Maple, is to archive the spell books, not to read them. If anyone truly has questions about magic or history or any such matter, they may ask me or another qualified curator of the museum."

  "Yes, Peppermint. Sorry."

  His harsh look softened a bit, and he patted the top of her fluffy head wearily.

  "I know you mean well, Mape. You know that reading these books won't let you use magic, right? The spells were only ever half the equation, and-"

  "I know. I'm sorry. Is there something you needed, maybe?"

  "Oh, uh, yeah. The college in TK has requested these books. Could you send those out for me? The next mail train will be here this evening, and I would like to send these out tonight."

  Maple nodded silently and took the slip of paper he handed her. A list of titles was written in his meticulous handwriting in shimmering golden ink. Peppermint frowned at her back, then headed back up the stairs with another sigh.

  —-

  She sat heavily down upon the old, ripped chair at her small desk. She hooked her foot under the book cart and whipped it next to her desk in a fluid, practiced move. What her brother had omitted was just what kind of college wanted these specific books and why. Using old dragon spells instead of actually writing your own lyrics was becoming a trend, popularized by the newly famous bard Lettuce.

  Maple grimaced as she packed up the books. The idea of her family's meticulously preserved tomes, filled with rites and rituals and incantations from powerful practitioners of the dead craft, being used to create background music at parties and rowdy taverns. The ancient, sacred secrets were being repeated ad nauseam until they were truly as meaningless as Peppermint thought.

  It's not that she wanted to prevent people from learning the contents of the books, in fact the opposite was true. She just wished in vain that it would be treated with the respect and seriousness it deserved. Though, she seemed to be alone in this desire. Even Peppermint, whom the family museum and archives breathed life into, thought of the spell books as little more than pretty decorations.

  Maple knew, however, that they were so much more.

  Despite her brother's best efforts, Maple had already read all of the spell books. She didn't really know what her family expected when they stuck her in the dust archives to hide her away years ago. She wasn't the incompetent fool that Peppermint took her for. She understood that there was no magic left in Salt, leached from the land decades ago and never coming back. She knew she couldn't use magic, but what else was there to do?

  Anyway, she liked reading these old books, so long forgotten. They smelled old, some pages still holding the delicate spice of pressed flowers or spilled ingredients. The writing of all the old spells, incantations, and rituals were like poetry written in old ink that scrawled, splashed, and sliced across the soft, crinkling paper. There were delicately and meticulously drawn diagrams of plants and animals, and recipes for potions and poultices.

  She hadn't just read the spell books, Maple had read every book here. Knowing that she was reading the same words as her ancestors had, the direct thoughts and commands of powerful and important figures in history made her heart soar. The problem was that no one else seemed to share her opinion, and least of all her family. The supposed guardians of magic. What a joke.

  Somewhere far off, she thought there might be a fight or a commotion. It sounded like someone even yelled, "He went this way!" She cast a half-interested glance up at the cracked-open window near the ceiling, her head resting glumly in her hand. Nothing exciting ever happened to her.

  She had read so many exciting books, not to mention the ones from her own archive. It could drive her mad to think of the magic and adventure that once existed in the world, all of it just gone. Well, at least for her. She would just have to settle for the adventure of not getting caught reading by Peppermint again.

  The clock tower in the square rang out the time, signaling that the day half done. Only a few more chimes until the mail train. Heart heavy, she tucked the book into the mailbag.

  Her regular afternoon brooding and stewing was interrupted by stomping feet down the basement stairs. Maple, who had been idly re-reading one of the books she was meant to be packaging, startled and slapped her tome shut and shoved it the side. She smoothed her hair back vain, and tried to look professional behind her cluttered little desk.

  "Hello?" A resonant voice, mercifully not her brother's, called out uncertainly. More loud, heavy footfalls.

  "Yes, hello! Please come in," she called back, stumbling out from behind her desk to meet the visitor.

  The man at the bottom of the stairs was tall and bulky, and she had to crane her neck to look at at him. He smiled down at her, wise and easy like he owned the place, but his eyes were obscured behind a pair of dark gem glasses. His clothing was bizarre, and odd mix-match of patterns and pieces, none of which seemed to actually fit him.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Oh, hey, there's the person that I was definitely expecting to be here. How is it going? Is this the Human Magical Archives?"

  Maple was so thrilled that someone, anyone, was visiting her and asking about the archives that she ignored the odd tone and the 'human' part. They were in the human capital of Salt, after all. Just because he looked human didn't mean he was one. He clomped down the stairs and looked a long, appraising look around. Maple noticed that, despite his strange attire and affect, he was actually a little handsome.

  "Welcome to the Archive of Magical Histories and Catalogue of Spells, a part of the Spice Rack City Museum. I'm Maple de Provence, the Archivist. What can I do for you today? Are you looking for anything in particular?"

  "Yeah, there's a book I'm looking for. Have you ever heard of LOVELOCK?"

  "Yes! We actually have what we believe to be the original copy. I've read it a million times, uh, don't tell Peppermint that. Hang on."

  She practically flew to the other side of the room, nearly tripping over the rugs in her haste. As she climbed the ladder and searched through the books, she thought hungrily about tonight when she would rub this in her older brother's face. There were still people who needed her expertise.

  The book in question wasn't particularly old, compared to some of the collection that lived in glass cases and couldn't be handled without special gloves. What it lacked in age, however, it made up for in being ridiculously ostentatious. Maple, of all people, knew not to judge a book by its cover, but that was what had drawn her to the book in the first place. How could you not read a book with sharp, glittering gemstones embedded into rich, unusual leather? Her family was still unsure about the leather's origin, but it reminded her a bit of the gator-skin belts and shoes her father had bought during a trip to the Swamps.

  Inside the book was a collection of all kinds of writing, including the usual spells and recipes. What made it unique was the series of what could only be love letters that made up the majority of the volume. She had read and reread the letters, sometimes only reading the book just to read them. Peppermint would die if he knew, but on occasion, she would sneak this book home to read by candlelight in her room.

  Whoever the writers were, their identities never fully revealed through the text, they were deeply, madly, passionately in love. There was something about the author's desperation for each other that was more exciting than any romance novel she could have read instead. Maple had never known love like that herself, but during those late nights, she sometimes let herself get carried away by the idea of it.

  When she returned, she found her guest leaning in close to a bookshelf. He lifted his glasses just barely off his nose and appeared to be squinting at the books. She made a polite cough to let him know she was there, knowing how easy it was to get lost in the shelves. He quickly dropped the glasses and scrabbled back a few steps.

  "Found it!"

  "Oh, nice! So, how much do you want for it?"

  "Pardon?"

  "The book. How much are you asking for?"

  Maple watched in disbelief as the stranger hefted a bag from their too-large jacket and tossed it on the table. The bag made the clink clatter of gold. She unconciously began to press the book to her chest, looking a little owlish with her eyes wide behind her round glasses with surprise.

  "Oh, oh no. Oh dear. I think you may have the wrong idea. I'm so very sorry, but the books are not to leave the archive. Oh, but you can read as many as you'd like to here."

  The man's face fell, a mix of confusion and anger painting it instead. She watched with growing unease as he began to to clench and clench his fists.

  "Well, that's... that's not going to work for me. Is there no way I can just leave with that book?"

  "You, uhm, could always ask for a temporary academic transfer, but that would necessitate an official request. And you would have to ask Peppermint for that, the museum curator."

  "The uptight know-it-all in the pink candy cane suit? Yeah, that probably wouldn't work either. I suppose that I would... like to read it here."

  Maple had to suppress a laugh at his description of her brother, a weight in her chest lifting. She released her hold on the book, and handed it to him before leading him to the thread-bare chairs in the corner that served as a reading space.

  "Let me get you set up then. I'm sorry about all the rules , I didn't make them, just have to enforce them. If it makes you feel better, no one really comes down here, so you'll have the place to yourself. Well, aside from me, but I promise I'll be quiet."

  He settled down into the creaking chair that sounded like it was on its last legs, with the book open before him on the scratched coffee table. Maple settled herself back behind the old, cracked desk and returned to sorting the mail. She tried not to stare at him, but he was like a burst of color in the otherwise drab, dim space. Even when she didn't look, she could still hear him scratching away in a notebook.

  At first she hoped that he might ask for more of her help or expertise, but realized glumly that he wouldn't be doing that. So the pair settled into a comfortable quiet.

  So, she was startled when he called out for her assistance some time later.

  "What can I do for you, Mr... Oh dear, I'm terribly sorry but I seem to have missed your name."

  "Ag... Grel. It's Grel."

  "Grel?"

  "Grel."

  "Yes, uh, Mr. Grel, what can I do for you?"

  "I was hoping that you could fetch a few more books for me?"

  "Happily. Which ones are you looking for?"

  She wished she could see his eyes to better understand the emotion that flashed across his face.

  "I... would like... whatever volumes that The Archivist recommends for a deeper understanding of this text. I'm sure you must have some suggestions."

  "How much time do you have to spare?"

  "Not nearly as much as I need."

  "Okay, I'll get some helpful reference guides then. That book can be a little tricky to read. Some sections are, to the best of our knowledge, written in what seems to be archaic Dragonspeech."

  "Oh, dragons? Really?"

  "Well, we don't know for sure. It's not like there are any dragons left to ask."

  "Yeah," said Grel and laughed too loudly.

  Maple laughed in awkward agreement, then excused herself. The more time she spent with him, the less she liked him.

  She was halfway up the ladder, leaning precariously out to grab a helpful book just past where the railing ended, when she heard something clatter from the front of the building. She called out to ask if everything was okay.

  "Oh yeah, everything is uh hunky dory"

  "'Hunky dory?'" She whispered to herself, eyebrows furrowing. Something was not sitting right with her.

  She slid down the ladder, landing with a thud that made her shins burn, and marched to the front to check. Her hunch was correct; she watched the colorful stranger trying to stuff the book into a bag that hung at his side. A vase leaked water onto the floor, thankfully, not shattering.

  "H-hey, stop that!"

  He turned to her sharply, freezing like a cat caught tormenting the pet bird. They stared at each other for a heartbeat, then he bolted.

  Maple took off after him, thinking about nothing other than getting her book back. He was fast, faster than he looked, but the stairs were old and weird, just a little too big to make comfortable strides. He nearly tipped over himself, but Maple only gained more and more ground, ignoring the ache in her usually sedentary body. She closed the gap, faster than she thought possible, and made to grab at his coat.

  "Please stop! You can't take that!"

  "Let me go! You wouldn't understand, and you don't want to be involved in this!"

  "You're right, I don't. I just want my book back!"

  She yanked at his trench coat with all her strength, but it felt as useless as fighting a building. He was immovable and much more sturdy and strong than his gangly frame suggested. Her fingers dug in and held like her life depended on it, because it kind of did, and used his leverage to haul herself up with him.

  Grel made a frustrated cry, more of a growl really, and tried to shake her off. She slammed into his back, knocking the air out of her chest, and reached out for the book. Her pink nails just hooked under a gem in the cover, desperately trying to knock the book from his grasp.

  He pulled back with impossible strength, sending her crashing into him again and again. Maple never let go, trying over and over to grab the book. Grel stepped on his long coat, which made him trip and fall, pulling him down until they were both sent crashing to the floor.

  Four very important things happened all at once then.

  One, the book clattered out of both of their hands and slid to a stop against the boot of Peppermint, who was practically boiling with rage. Maple braced for a yell with her name somewhere in it.

  Two, Grel's gem glasses fell off, and Maple, who was face to face with him and currently sprawled across his chest, could see his eyes. His eyes! There were gold and purple, and they sparkled like a multi-faceted jewel.

  Three, Grel also turned into a dragon.

  Four...