Page 9 of Winter Queen
On the spine, Mozart's name is embossed in gold.
He hands me the book and looks at me expectantly.
"Open it."
I do as he asks, turning the first page with anticipation. It only states the years of his life, 1756 to 1791, but as soon as I turn the next page, it gets more interesting.
Day 1: Birth. A very unpleasant affair. Got to meet my parents and older sister.
Day 2: Christening. I cried a lot when the water touched my head.
What the...
"Is this for real?" I ask the Librarian, who's peeking over my shoulder, reading what I just read.
"It very much is, yes. We all write our books of life in a different way. Some write it like a diary, others are like biographies in the third person. Some don't contain any words, but drawings. Skip a few years ahead."
I turn about fifty pages and suddenly, the sentences turn into music. Mozart no longer thinks in words, but in musical notes. I flick through the pages, in awe of his work. There are entire symphonies in this book.
"Is this the music he wrote, or something else entirely?"
The Librarian strokes his long beard. "Both, I believe. I recognise a few of the pieces of music in there, but a lot aren't familiar to me at all. It's an astonishing book, certainly. A lot easier to read than that of Pythagoras, or," he shudders, "Kafka."
"Is it only the important people who have books here?"
He frowns. "Child, didn't you listen? Everybody has a book in the Library, from the most nondescript peasant to the greatest kings. Gods, too. There is nobody, alive or dead, who doesn't have their book in this room."
"Even you?"
"Even me. Although we're not allowed to look at our own books. They're hidden from us, so I've never even seen mine."
"Aren't you tempted to read it?"
He chuckles. "Why? I prefer to live my life, rather than read about it afterwards. Living in the present is much more important than doing deeds to be admired for in the future. Not that anybody would ever admire me. I'm just the Librarian."
Somehow, I know that he is a lot more than just the caretaker of this Library. He's got an air around him that reminds me of that of a God. Is there a God of Books? I'll need to ask my mother.
Which makes me think...
"Does my mother have one?"
"Of course, but it's under lock and key. Beira's life, knowledge and experiences are far too dangerous for people to read. If you want to look at it, you'll have to ask her permission. But before you do that, ask yourself, would you want anyone to read your own book?"
It doesn't take me long to think about that. No, of course not. It's too personal. Maybe once I'm dead, but even then... And besides, I'm kind of Immortal now. Which begs the question, why I'm in the Library now. I thought only dead people came here. But I passed all the tests the last time I was here, I shouldn't be dead.
How did I not ask this when I woke up?
Oh yes, the books distracted me. Books tend to do that.
"Am I dead?" I ask him bluntly, and the Librarian smiles at me benevolently. He's got something grandfatherly about him, something that makes me want to hug him.
"Only if you choose to be," he says mysteriously.
"Why would I choose to be?"
"Some Immortals get tired of living, so sometimes, they get to choose whether they want to continue their lives or pass on. That is the only time we are allowed to look in our own books - the time we make the decision between life and death. Of course, mortals don't get to make that decision, so they'll never even know these books exist."
I feel bad for my adoptive parents, my friends, hell, everybody I knew on Earth. They're living in a world without magic, one that I used to be in but which now feels very far away.
