I haven’t managed to become a truly good or truly happy person. I haven’t managed to look after Voltaire.
And now, last of all, she hadn’t even managed to become dead.
It was pathetic really, the amount of possibilities she had squandered.
‘While the Midnight Library stands, Nora, you will be preserved from death. Now, you have to decide how you want to live.’
The Moving Shelves
The shelves on either side of Nora began to move. The shelves didn’t change angles, they just kept on sliding horizontally.
It was possible that the shelves weren’t moving at all, but the books were, and it wasn’t obvious why or even how.
There was no visible mechanism making it happen, and no sound or sight of books falling off the end – or rather the start – of the shelf.
The books slid by at varying degrees of slowness, depending on the shelf they were on, but none moved fast.
‘What’s happening?’ Mrs Elm’s expression stiffened and her posture straightened, her chin retreating a little into her neck.
She took a step closer to Nora and clasped her hands together.
‘It is time, my dear, to begin.’ ‘If you don’t mind me asking – begin what?’
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