The Day The Books LeftManagra strode the empty library, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. A hard, hollow sound. It was different when the books were here: sounds were softer and the air hummed as if with a million insects. Now the galleries were deserted places. Lifeless.
But the books would be back soon. Back from their winter in distant lands. They were late, that was all. They were always late these days. People said the weather was changing, affecting the migration patterns. Maybe that was it. When she'd been young, an acolyte, the place hummed with activity from spring to autumn. Now the people didn't come and the books didn't come and it was impossible to know what was the cause and what was the effect.
She crossed to one of the tall windows, looking out for the hundredth
