It had all started so promisingly, really. With her neatly-lettered offer of acceptance for an internship at the Lamdale Branch Library tightly clutched in her hands, Clara had arrived at the haphazardly pristine structure filled with hopes and dreams, nodding along wide-eyed as Miss Worth had led her through the winding stacks and teeming bins full of worn-down volumes in desperate need of re-shelving. It was, the Assistant Director had explained, something of a special branch, with a diminished clientele offset by a pleasantly unique environment. It hadn't seemed all that unique to Clara, even with the staff lounge smelling faintly of something hard to place and the fact that all the librarians seemed to be discussing staying after work in hushed tones.

The Lovelace twins manning Circulation had been her first hint something was amiss, their constant whispering to each other always seeming to die to quiet nods and significant looks when Clara ventured away from her perch at the labeling desk behind the counter. Every so often, a patron would wander in and deposit a stack of books to be checked out, but the flow of the two librarians' chatter was incessant, vague mentions of the Director and what Clara could only presume to be references to the stubbornly stuck dropbox outside peppering the otherwise unintelligible hum. It was, after all, always difficult to stuff a volume back in, although Clara wasn't quite sure why such an insertion would be accompanied by groans and meaningful closing of the eyes.

The second week was much the same, the ebb and flow of paper and patrons wrapping itself around the goings-on in the back rooms and cubbies tucked throughout Lamdale Branch. Here there was Miss Lily, slipping from an alcove and making a show of swallowing something just consumed, and there was Miss Worth, idly playing with the odd silvery sculptures on her desk, the gleaming surface of the acorn-like objects always seeming to reflect Clara's curiosity back at her.

Things had been a touch harder to ignore, after that, the rhythmic sound of shelves bumping into walls in rooms to which no door could be found coming during the overnight shift Clara had gamely volunteered for, and what had seemed almost like violet candlelight accompanying the departure of the always-elusive Director, a hint of his silhouette disappearing up the stairs to the Restricted Section whenever Clara dared venture out to see if she could catch a glimpse. The Lovelaces were always up to something, in between their muttering that the Director would Reward them for their performance in the early-literacy programs. Clara wasn't entirely sure how they managed to make capital letters audible, but she supposed that she, too, would pick up the talent eventually, if she stuck with the business of words long enough.

Weeks turned to months, and the strange things turned to footnotes on the pages of routine, Clara's day tidily replacing books back in their place wending its way through the odd recognition that the closet in the back was stocked with several large, locked trunks and used-up candles, or the fact that each morning after a full moon, the others at Lamdale always seemed to have a difficult time steadying themselves amid the shelves. Even the coffee in the break room had become routine, the bottle of thick cream dispensed by Miss Worth from a flask just another note in a song Clara was beginning to find more pleasant by the day. The muffled chanting? Well, that was just a calming accompaniment to a good, thorough sorting.

The Lovelaces would show up time and time again disheveled in manners not befitting Young Ladies of Proper Education, but, Clara, had to admit, their approving nods and hushed recountings of goings-on with the Director were matched by a growing number of insightful suggestions about library reorganization, and Miss Worth had even saw fit to open up a charity drive borne along by late fines, on what she had simply huffed and called "the right thing to do according to the Rules, and leading to much pleasure besides."

By the time six months had passed, Clara was confident her internship would one day be at an end, and the vaunted promise of a letter inviting her Onto the Staff, as Miss Worth insisted on calling it, was almost within reach. Almost. She wasn't entirely certain what sort of assessment the Lovelaces kept giggling about, but it was next Tuesday. And nothing, Clara firmly believed, could go wrong on a Tuesday.

After all, everyone kept saying that she and the Director would get along famously.

Is this a vaguely Edwardian-era library tale hinting at hooded robes, oddly wholesome goings-on, and our charming young protagonist doing all sorts of enjoyable things with the mysterious library director?

Yes. Yes, I believe it is.

Check out: Literary playfulness, vanilla-with-sprinkles mischief, properly-inscribed pentacles, and not-so-proper forms of intercourse many young ladies nevertheless enjoy.

Shelve: Anyone getting hurt, unwholesome messes in the stacks, and underage patrons.

Thanks for reading, and, as always, I'd love to hear from you. Cheers!