Chapter 64

The scents of a library, like its overall appearance--regardless of architecture--were universal and therefore soothingly familiar. Dust and parchment were more palliative to Dallin's senses than a stiff drink would've been. He stood by the door for a moment, just breathing in the scent of beeswax and ink, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in through the high windows paned in painted leaded glass. It wasn't as big as Putnam's, nor was it as comfortably shabby. The shelves didn't overflow with a mishmash of titles of which only Manning knew the order, but were lined neatly, each volume tucked in its own slot. No squat little stove piled with teapots and saucepans heating the librarian's lunch ticked in the corner, but a central hearth burned with a sensibly sized fire that put off just enough heat for comfort.