I decide instantly that she’s my favorite and pick out a book from her shelf to read tonight in case I can’t sleep. Then nearly laugh out loud as I trace my finger around the edges of a sticker that reads, “I’m not a damsel in distress; I’m a dragon in a dress.”

I continue wandering from statue to statue, from a small shelf on Gothic architecture to a whole bookcase devoted to ghost stories. On and on it goes, and the longer I’m in here, the more convinced I am that the head librarian here is the coolest person ever—and has fantastic taste in books.

I make it to the end of the trail and turn the corner around the last bookshelf in search of the final gargoyle, only to find him pointing straight toward a half-open door. There’s a huge sign on it that reads students must have permission to access this room, and—of course—that only makes me more curious. Especially since the light is on and there’s some weird kind of music playing.

I try to place it, but as I get closer, I realize it’s not so much music as it is chanting in a language I don’t recognize and certainly can’t understand. Instantly, my curiosity turns to excitement.

When I was researching Alaska, I learned that there are twenty different languages spoken here by the state’s native peoples, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what I’m hearing. I hope so—I’ve totally been wanting a chance to listen to one of the native languages spoken. Especially since so many of them are threatened, including a couple that have less than four thousand speakers in the entire world. That these native languages are dying out is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.

Maybe if I’m lucky, I can kill two birds with one stone here. I can meet the very cool librarian responsible for this library and get a lesson from her (because the voice is definitely female) on one of the native languages. Even one of those options makes for a much better night than standing around being stared at at a party that was supposedly thrown to welcome me.

But when I step up to the door, ready to introduce myself, I find that the person doing the chanting isn’t the librarian at all. She’s a girl about my age, with long, silky dark hair and one of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. Maybe the most beautiful.

She’s holding open a book and reading from it, which explains the chanting I heard. I want to ask what language it is, since I can’t see the cover, but the way her head snaps up when I step over the threshold has the words drying up in my throat.

Whoever she is, she looks fierce, cheeks flushed, and mouth open wide to let out the unique sounds of whatever language she is speaking. She stops mid-word, with what looks an awful lot like fury burning in her swirling black eyes.

   12

It’s All

Fun and Games

Until Someone Loses

Their Life

I fumble for an apology—or at least an excuse—but before I can come up with one, the rage in her eyes is gone. In fact, it dissipates so quickly, I can’t be sure I didn’t imagine it. Especially since the anger, or whatever it was, turns to welcome as she walks toward me.

“You must be Grace,” she says in slightly accented English as she comes to a stop about a foot in front of me. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” She extends a hand forward and I take it, bemused, as she continues. “I’m Lia, and I have a feeling we’re going to be really good friends.”

It’s not the strangest greeting I’ve ever gotten—that honor still belongs to Brant Hayward, whose version of nice to meet you was wiping his boogers all over my first-day-of-school dress when we were both in kindergarten—but it’s a close second. Still, there’s an infectiousness about her smile that has me grinning back.

“I am Grace,” I agree. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, don’t be so formal,” she tells me, gently steering me out of the room before I can mention that I want to look around. Seconds later, she’s got the lights off and the door closed behind us, all in the most efficient way possible.

“What language was that you were speaking? Was it native to Alaska? It was beautiful,” I say as we start walking back toward the center of the library.

“Oh, no.” She laughs, a light, tinkling sound that perfectly matches the rest of her. “It’s actually a language I came across in my research. I’ve never heard it spoken out loud, so I’m not even sure I’m pronouncing it correctly.”

“Well, it sounded amazing. What kind of book was it in?” Now I wish more than ever that I’d gotten a look at the cover.

“A boring one,” she answers with a wave of her hand. “I swear this research project is going to kill me. Now, come on, let’s go get some tea, and you can tell me all about yourself. Plenty of time to talk about classes when you’re actually stuck in them.”

I decide not to mention that starting new classes is pretty much the only thing I’ve been looking forward to about the move to Alaska. I mean, my public school definitely didn’t offer Witch Hunts in the Atlantic World for a history credit. Besides, tea sounds wonderful, especially considering what just happened when I tried a Dr Pepper. So does the idea of making a friend at this place where everyone looks at me like I have three heads…or like I’m nothing at all.

“Are you sure you aren’t busy? I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to explore the library a little bit. I love the gargoyle theme. Very Gothic.”

“It is, right? Ms. Royce is cool like that.”

“Oh, yeah? Let me guess. Flannel shirts and a hipster vibe? That kind of thing?”

“You would think. But she’s actually more a hippie skirt and flower crown kind of woman.”

“Now I want to meet her even more.” We’re on the other side of the library from where I came in and we pass through a sitting area with a bunch of black couches, each one dotted with purple throw pillows bearing different quotes from classic horror movies. My favorite is Norman Bates’s famous line from Psycho: “We all go a little mad sometimes.” Although I’m also partial to the pillow next to it: “Be afraid. Be very afraid,” from The Fly.

“Ms. Royce is big on Halloween,” Lia says with a laugh. “I don’t think she’s put everything away yet.”

Oh, right. Halloween was three days ago. I’ve been so focused on everything else that I just about forgot about it completely this year, even though Heather spent months making her costume from scratch.

I put the book I picked up earlier down on the nearest table—I’ll come back for it when the librarian is here— Lia pushes the main door open and gestures for me to precede her. I wait while she turns off the lights, then locks the door. “The library is usually closed on Sunday nights, but I’m doing an independent study this semester, so Ms. Royce lets me work late sometimes.”