Chapter 2.2

“The collection is downstairs in storage room F. It will be on the left side of the hallway, about halfway down,” she directed in a light voice. I thanked her and saw a whisper of a smile pick up the corners of her mouth before she turned back to her cart of books.

I had almost reached the door to the basement stairs when I was startled by a hand being placed on my bicep. I jumped with surprise and whirled around. The girl from the reception desk was standing there, her cheeks flushed with pink embarrassment from startling me. I hadn’t even heard her footsteps on the carpeted floor as she approached me.

“I forgot… I’m supposed to give this to you… Sorry” she nearly whispered. I noticed an envelope in her outstretched hand, my name printed on the front in Dr. Segall’s chicken scratch handwriting.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, taking the envelope from her.

“S-sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Please let me know if there is anything you need while you’re working.” Her voice was so low, I had to almost strain to hear her words.

“No worries…” I hesitated, realizing I didn’t know her name.

“Debbie,” she filled in for me.

“Thanks, Debbie.” I smiled. She was possibly the quietist person I had ever met, but she seemed kind. I almost felt bad that I was smuggling a thermos full of coffee into the library, feeling Debbie would surely disapprove.

I made my way down to storage room F, unlocked the door, found a light switch, and flipped on the old fluorescent overhead light. The light blinked on, illuminating a smaller room stacked with sagging cardboard boxes. A small desk with a single chair was against the left side of the room, an ancient banker’s lamp with a crooked shade atop the desk.

I plopped my tote bag onto the desk and shrugged out of my jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair. I opened Dr. Segall’s letter and read:

Camellia!

Thank you again for helping with this project. Please start a list of titles, authors, and publishing dates. Put aside anything that catches your eye as something that might need a second look. I trust your judgement.

Work for however long you can and let me know how many hours to put on your timecard. Whatever you are able to get through will be a big help!

Regards,

Dr. Segall

The formality of his signature made me smile. Dr. Segall was an old, white-hired, traditional professor; the kind who had patches on the elbows of his blazer, wore sweater vests, and carried a leather briefcase. He was a kind man with a sincere passion for literature.

Dr. Segall was the professor of my first college literature class freshman year. After he learned about my family situation towards the end of that semester, he started becoming a grandfatherly figure in my life. He never pushed for information or gave me pity like some others had; instead, he quietly supported me, listened when I needed to talk, and always had a dish full of butterscotch hard candies on his desk.

I reached into my tote and pulled out my notepad, pen, and thermos. I was glad I had the forethought to bring coffee with me; it was going to be a long morning staring at old books. After a hearty gulp of coffee, I opened the flaps of the box closest to the desk, pulled out the first of many musty, dusty, old books, and started in.

About five and a half hours later, the comforting smell of old books stopped being enjoyable as my sinuses begin to feel swollen from all the dust I had been breathing in. My coffee was gone, as was the slightly squished granola bar I dug out of the bottom of my tote bag, my eyes were tired from squinting at old, faded text, my fingers were dry and dirty from handling the ancient books, and I was feeling a bit brain dead.

I placed the book I had just finished recording on the rolling cart with the others I had diligently unpacked and documented. I leaned back in the chair, stretching my back, rolling my sore shoulders, and blinking the weariness from my eyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I was enjoying discovering what sort of treasures were in the collection, but I was just about at my limit for one day. It was past time to wrap up and go home in search of a hot shower and some late lunch.

I picked up the cardboard box I had emptied to move it to another spot when I felt something slide across the bottom of the box. I looked in and realized there was one small book left that I had almost missed. Pulling it out of the box, I noticed it was a very old, cloth covered book with yellowed pages. It was small and rather slim. The worn cover was a deep navy blue, some stains and scars marring the cloth. The thin gold embellishment framed a gold image of a flower in the center of the cover. It looked like a delphinium almost, the wear on the book made it hard to be sure.

There were no words on the cover, just the flower. I turned the book over in my hands and noticed there was no title on the spine either. I opened the cover to the title page. The title was handwritten in careful, elegant script.

Red Riding Hood’s Tale