When I was a freshman in high school, my parents and I took a road trip to the Grand Canyon. I didn’t want to go—everything I needed was right in my own back yard. Why did I need to see some stupid hole in the ground when I could be climbing up to the top of the world with Luke and Jessa in the San Clarita?
But they dragged me anyway, as parents often do. We got out of the car at the visitor center, and while my parents went to use the restroom, I plodded over to the railing where people were crowded around with cameras and selfie sticks, eager to see what all the fuss was about and prove my point that we’d wasted our time.
But when the crowd parted and I got my first glimpse of the Canyon, I was instantly overcome. The people faded away, the sounds drifted into nothingness, and suddenly I was standing on the edge of the world, looking down into the most beautiful, breathtaking, awesome wonder I’d ever seen. A condor soared overhead, and as I looked down at the red and purple layers of rock and mud and bone, I felt as though I could see the entire history of Earth, of life, of existence.
By the time my parents found me, I was shaking; tears streamed down my cheeks.
“It’s just so beautiful,” I whispered, and mom kissed my cheeks and said, “I know, baby. I know.”
Now, walking into the library with Kirin, I’m overcome with that exact same feeling. Awe and wonder, a sense of absolute timelessness, utter amazement that something so beautiful even exists in my world. I blink away the tears, trying to take in the splendor that seems to stretch out in all directions, all the way up to the heavens.
The library is built in a spiral around a circular marble floor in deep shades of blue, with four massive pillars—two stationed at each side of the space, almost like gateways. Shelves upon shelves climb so high along the spiral I lose sight of them, even as I tip my head all the way back. The ceiling is domed, but there are no wooden beams or angelic paintings. Only the sky itself, bright blue in the autumn afternoon, the sun gleaming through the glass.
“The pillars are reminiscent of those in the High Priestess and Hierophant cards,” Kirin says, “symbolizing gateways to inner and outer knowledge. The sky was left visible, representing the clarity and insight we strive to attain through learning, questioning, reasoning, and wonder. The floor mimics the ocean—the depths of our souls and deepest intuitive selves.”
Looking down at the floor, I see now that it’s not just a deep blue marble, but swirls of violet and green and black, everything changing in the light.
Kirin leads me through the pillars on the north side of the space onto what I now realize is a wide wooden staircase that spirals all the way up to the top.
“Stairs or elevator?” he asks.
“You’re talking to a climber.”
“First day of work together, and you’re already giving me a workout.”
“You’ll thank me one day. Stamina’s a good quality in a man.”
Oh, Stevie. You continue to amaze us with your verbal prowess.
My cheeks flame with heat, my stupid mouth getting away from my brain once again.
But unlike Baz, Kirin is a gentleman, and lets the innuendo pass with no more than a raised eyebrow.
We ascend together, my eyes growing wider with every step as we pass by the towering shelves of books. There are sections on amulets and charms, plants and herbcraft, animal familiars, conjuring benevolent as well as evil spirits, communicating and working with the dead, crystals, elemental magicks, Tarot history, Tarot theory, Tarot spellcraft… Wow. The “T” section is the largest by far.
I read every sign out loud, excited laughter bubbling out of me. “I want to learn all of it!”
Kirin laughs. “Well, you’ve got at least four years to accomplish that goal, six or eight if you decide to continue on to graduate work.”
“That feels too far away.”
“In the meantime, if there are any books you’d like, you can just put in a request on your phone. They’ll be delivered to your door within an hour.”
“Seriously? How is that even possible?”
“Magickal library, remember?” Kirin winks, then says, “Here we are. This way.”
About halfway up the endlessly winding stairs, Kirin puts a hand on the small of my back and leads me into an open space with gleaming hardwood floors and lush red runners. Several students are working at tables in the center, every flat surface stacked with books and scrolls and laptops, the only sounds the clack of keyboards and the swish of pages turning. Along with the unmistakable scent of old books, a faint scent of lemon oil hangs in the air, probably from whatever they use to polish the wooden shelves and floors.
On the back wall is an ornately-carved oak door with a plaque that reads, ARCHIVES - AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.
“We’ll be working in here,” Kirin says, pressing his hand to the scanner outside the door. It looks a lot like the one at my suite. Once we’re inside, he shuts the door behind us and presses his hand to another scanner just like the first. The door beeps, then latches, locking us in.
We’re standing in a nondescript room about the size of my bathroom back at the suite, with a tall phone-booth-looking machine at the other end, positioned in front of yet another door.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You know the scanners at airport security?”
