This is part two of the story, "Behind the Book."
Pushing aside a unsorted tower of tracts on tea leaf divination, Elzevir made a grisly discovery. Lying on the grubby black and white tiling was a person - or what remained of a person, the body slowly decaying. He grabbed his tatty cloak, trying to defend his open mouth and lungs from the sensory onslaught. Gaining a little courage, Elzevir used his staff to lever the head up with his staff. The face, which had been flat to the floor, had disappeared and now nothing remained but a featureless skull. I really should go back and get one of the guards, he thought and was just about to leave when he noticed something strange at the feet of the corpse. Not only were the dead person's feat perfectly preserved, there was a set of stairs. How could this be? This section of the library is a dead end. The little, old man felt his arm hairs rise in prickly suspense. The smell of the corpse seemed to grow all the more intolerable, but appeared less severe nearer the stair case end. Without too much thought, Elzevir scrambled down the staircase, bringing his staff up in case of a sudden assailants.
The corridor he entered was unusual to say the least. Mirrors, untarnished by the years, panelled the long chamber. Standing at the foot of the stairwell, Elzevir found it hard to tell whether the corridor wound round, or continued straight. When the glyph lights had failed some weeks before, much of the library had been left in blackness, but obviously the wrights had apparently never ventured into the vicinity. The corridor was lit by an unknown source; reddy-brown lamps hung ever-burning from the grimy ceilings. Putting a consoling hand on the left-hand wall, he crept up the twitten. “Whoever owns this place,” he whispered (for it surely was no longer the library), “is a vain peacock. Look at these fine glasses!”
The mirrors were beautifully made. Elzevir wanted to touch them. The first revealed nothing to but himself. However when he stopped to look at the third it seemed to make him a little younger. The opposite mirror, on the right hand wall, did not show at all. But there was a man in the image, a man who looked a crueller and more lively character than himself. His flaming locks stuck up in ridiculous but proud spikes. He held no staff, but a dirty and unattractive doll. Tied to its head was a single lock of brown hair. Elzevir had to admit, he could see something of himself in this man, particularly around the eyes, which flashed with the intelligence of a forest sprite. “I become as proud as the owner of these strange looking glasses,” he murmured. Perhaps it is best to turn back. But maybe just a few mirrors more.
At the seventh mirror his left hand image changed once more, and the wrinkles crawled from his face like unwanted, dark worms. In this mirror, Elzevir mused, I must be about eighteen. The right hand, opposing mirror did not correlate in age, but instead depicted a scene. By now Elzevir was sensing that this image must in some way be himself, though it felt unfamiliar, like ill fitting shoes. However, Try as he might the librarian could not make the reflection do his bidding, although it seemed in some of its subtler movements to be aware of his physical presence. When Elzevir blinked, it blinked. When he opened his mouth, it followed. Elzevir's mirror image appeared to be crafting the strange manikin depicted in the earlier pane. Elzevir watched with horror as the dark hair was lovingly sowed into the top of the doll's scalp. There was flash, which made mirror Elzevir and Elzevir himself startle, and the doll appeared to wheeze into life just for a moment, then lie still again. “Mine,” he heard him and his twin say, instantly regretting it. “Mine,” came from their mouth once again. It is time to leave. No not yet. A little further.
Finally Elzevir reached the end of the frightening corridor. There was a dead end, or what looked like one; a glyph he had never seen before was carved into the wall. Refusing to look at the last few few mirror panes, Elzevir was quite disappointed to be confronted with this impasse. However to his surprise he found a dusty scroll lying on the floor. A sickening but vitalising feeling had risen in his stomach since he passed the looking glasses. Meanwhile, Elzevir felt filled with smouldering curiosity now, away from the dank and lonely world of books. His old body almost acted without need of command. He dived to his knees, the scroll in his lap ready to read. He popped open a small pair of reading glasses, an instinct of his daily routine, but was surprised when he did not need them...
