*We have a roof on our Library now!*
The construction in the Library finally seems to be finished, and the results are amazing. A simple, graceful geometry of metal and wood struts arch across the ceiling, forming a semi-geodesic dome structure which supports translucent, pearly white panels which serve as the roof. They are apparently not glass, but something at once lighter and tougher than glass, with something of a seashell sheen to them. The lighting in the library is brighter than electricity during a sunny day but soft; the opacity of the panels seems to protect the books from the harm of direct sun.
The bookshelves have returned to their proper places along the walls, also forming proper stacks, but they are still mostly empty. Piles of books, stacks of books, ramparts of books are everywhere upon the glitteringly new-varnished wooden floor. Two ancient book-trolleys-- one freshly painted an incongruous canary-yellow, and the other sporting a cheerful coat of candy-apple red-- are also loaded with books.
To the left as you enter from the front door stands the Librarian's desk, polished to a reluctant gleam, with a few patched comfortable chairs in front of it. To your right is the card catalog, the little drawers neatly labeled.
On the tripod, just in front of the door, is a large piece of paper reading:
"Please Be Patient While The Librarians Reorganize Our Books. Isn't Our New Roof Wonderful!?!?!?!!?!?!?"
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt is tucked into them at the waist; the collar of it's left mostly unlaced, the ends of the cord hanging down. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
Unruly black hair, long enough to nearly reach the girl's waist, falls in tangles around a gypsy's face. Both the shade of the girl's skin and the cast of her features speak of a Mediterranean heritage: her nose is a little long, her cheekbones high, her complexion a mild olivine tan. Her eyes are not dark, but a peculiar shade of hazel-green. She is of a middling height for a woman, perhaps five and a half feet, lithe and lean, all whipcord muscle with barely an ounce of softness.
She wears a simple tunic of undyed, soft-tanned deerskin: a single hide with a hole in the center for the neck, belted at the waist with some sort of woven fiber; it hangs in a ragged, uneven fall that barely covers her thighs.
Safi curls up in a chair with Blake, looking wide-eyed at the pictures in the big volume.
Serendipity slips in, sliding out of his coat and leaving it on the hook as he passes, on the way to his usual chair. The book he's been reading's still on the floor beside it, and he scoops it up before starting to drop into the chair over that armrest, and stopping short, teetering dangerously, when he finds Safi there.
Safi looks up, and over--and even as he nearly topples into her, she is closing the lavishly illustrated book and unfolding to her feet, standing decidedly too close for polite society and staring at him with startled eyes. "I was in your chair... I am sorry. I will go somewhere."
Serendipity looks equally startled at first, though it passes, and he grins a touch sheepishly. "Nah; nah, beautiful, you don't hafta do that. No deed to it sayin' it's reserved for me. I just didn't expect it to be occupied." Polite society notwithstanding, he doesn't bother to back up to increase the personal space.
Safi answers him with a faint, shy smile. "Is okay. I like ze floor. You sit. Maybe read stories, if you want?" She drops into a graceful heap on the floor, at the foot of the armchair.
Serendipity hesitates just a second, and then slips into the chair, curling into the corner of it. "That'd be nice," he murmurs, and studies her a moment. "Y'know, you could sit in the chair =with= me, if y'wanted. Swear t'be a gentleman -- Coyote's honour." He lifts a hand, briefly. "'sup to you."
Safi looks up guardedly, and then lowers her eyes, giving a quick little shake of her head. "I do not think Jack would like zis," she murmurs, "so I think no. But we can sit close, and read, I think is okay."
Serendipity nods, and gives a little shrug, twisting to get more comfortable and take up more of the chair. "A'ight. So, what're we reading today?" He leans to look over her shoulder, at the book.
"Blake," she says quietly, opening the volume again--her finger marking the page. Songs of Innocence and Experience, with the poet's illustrations. "It is... very strange. Like-- like nurse-ry rhymes."
Serendipity peers at the page. "Blake, huh? Never read that. ....poetry, yeah?"
Safi nods sagely. "It is... I like, mostly, but it is odd."
Serendipity settles in. "Read on, my lovely muse," he instructs loftily, and grins again.
The watercolor illustration is dark, lurid, a globe surrounding a tree, a great divine hand reaching over it. "Earth raised up her head, from the darkness deep and drear..." Safi reads, her accent touching the words with something exotic. "Her light fled: stony dread! --and her locks covered wis' grey despair."
She leans against his knees, reading from the lush-colored pages. The Introduction, the rose... poem after poem.
Serendipity resists the urge to play with the girl's hair, and leans forward periodically to see the pictures, listening attentively as she reads.