Work Text:
It’s not uncommon to find Edgar in the library.
Many would say it’s one of the furthest things from uncommon, actually. When nobody knows where Edgar is, the main assumption is always that he is in the library; and this is (most of the time) true.
There’s just something about it.
Edgar’s not one to psychoanalyze himself, but he finds a sort of comfort in the place, one he doesn’t find anywhere else. It’s not the warm, fuzzy comfort he gets when hanging out with his friends, nor the relaxing sort that follows when collapsing into bed after a particularly hard battle in the Plagueround. It’s almost… belonging. Books are one of the main constants in life – in all life – and around them, Edgar feels like he… belongs.
It has been five weeks since the beginning of his first year, and Edgar has read exactly fourty-three books from the library. He can’t tell you how many there are in the place – the room seems to have an annoying habit of moving around the shelves every day, so one day the shelf on the direct left when walking straight in has ‘science fiction’ and the next it has ‘plants and herbal remedies’ – but he can confidently say it’s one of the biggest Libraries he’s ever seen, with one of the biggest collections he’s ever seen.
That doesn’t mean some of the books in it aren’t a bit… weird.
Edgar stares at the book in his hand. Magically speaking, he’s quite sure that there’s nothing special about this book; it hasn’t yet tried to eat him, nor did it seem to be following him when he turned his back (long story including quite a few bowls of beans, Roland’s hammer, and Hexmaster Singh’s spare lighter) and yet it feels… strange.
It’s odd. Out of place.
In fact, the closer Edgar looks at it, the more certain he is that it isn’t a book at all. It seems to be a… diary.
Edgar frowns, intrigued, and, after a few more seconds of staring, opens the diary. He waits, but nothing jumps out at him, so assumes it’s safe enough to read.
Letter on the front.
Huh? The boy blinks, and then turns the cover back over so it’s facing him.
Lo and behold, there it is. A letter on the front of the diary, one he’s certain wasn’t there before – unless it was? Had he missed it somehow?
… He should probably read the letter on the front, just in case.
Diary, dear, letter on the front.
Edgar squints, as if trying to decipher the words written. What did that even mean? Diary, dear, letter on the front. At least he was correct in assuming it was a diary?
… Should he be reading someone else’s diary? But it was left in a library – they meant for it to be read, right?
He shakes his head, trying to clear it of questions and thoughts, and carries on.
Dear diar- Dear Inspector.
Oh. Maybe this wasn’t meant for him, after all – he’s certainly no Inspector.
… Edgar’s not sure he wants to stop reading, though. Plus, it isn’t really an invasion of privacy, is it? It’s a letter (made clear by the fact it said ‘letter on the front’ and has used the world ‘dear’ three times by now) and even if it weren’t meant for him, it’s old. Whatever relevance it once had is long gone.
Dear, my dear dear Inspector.
That’s getting a little strange now. Perhaps the person writing this letter and the ‘Inspector’ were in a relationship? Edgar’s father and grandfather sometimes call the people they’re spending the night with ‘dear’.
Deers are running around my forest currently in our- in uh in our gardens.
The forest in the gardens. Monty would like that – a forest in the gardens would probably be much better to run around in than the one in Manchester.
It usually is a sign of ha ha ha-ha-ha-ha.
Edgar’s beginning to think the person writing this letter may be in the middle of a stroke. Or dying. Maybe they were bleeding out and this is the last thing they wrote to their lover before passing away?
That’s a horrible image!
AAAGH!
The tone shift takes him by surprise. What could make someone go from writing down their laughter to writing down their screams? Maybe they really are dying.
He squints at the words directly under the ones he’s just read, but can’t figure any of them out, the handwriting too scribbled. He shrugs to himself. It was probably ‘dear’ repeated multiple times again, anyway.
Inspector! Inspector!
Edgar’s beginning to think the Inspector and the letter writer are not in a relationship, after all. He’s not entirely convinced the writer knows the Inspector’s name.
Are you listening? Listen to me!
For what feels like the millionth time since deciding to read the strange diary, Edgar blinks and frowns. You can’t listen to a letter. Surely the writer knows that?
I’m writing here!
Maybe the writer was trapped inside the letter, and the only way to escape was to get the Inspector’s attention?
Edgar suddenly feels uneasy. Is that a possibility? Getting sucked inside of a book?
… He may have to ask Mr. Hinks, before picking up any other books from the library.
I’m sorry :( that. Your. Friend. Died.
Oh.
A wave of sadness suddenly flows through the boy. No matter how strange the method of writing was – did they really have to punctuate each word? – nobody deserves to have their friend die. Nobody.
I’m reeeaaally sorry.
Edgar scowls. That looks sarcastic. Was the writer making fun of the fact that the Inspector’s friend was dead?
Ha ha ha ha.
Maybe it was written in the middle of a psychological breakdown. Wait— ‘Inspector’. Like the people who investigate crimes. Had the diary owner committed a crime, and written a letter to the Inspector who was trying to investigate it?
I was speaking to my son.
These words seem more… legible than the rest. (Edgar’s not quite sure how much longer of a break he’s got, but he’s committed to finishing this letter now.)
The only one al- alive.
Oh. That’s… horrible. Outliving your own kids? Edgar can’t imagine it.
The only man alive a-left, fucking hell.
Ah, seems like it is back to being non-legible. Even the letter writer seems to be getting confused about the contents of the page, now (and what a long page it has been. Are all pages this long?).
The only man alive left in my family.
‘My’, not ‘our’. Confirmation that they aren’t in a relationship, then.
… Edgar’s still a little confused about what this is meant to be about, and why it’s in the shelves of a school library.
Please turn over.
Oh, he hadn’t even realised that he was reaching the end of the page.
Edgar’s eyes scan through the page one last time, hand reaching to flip it when—
NO NO CHANGE PAGE TURN IT BACK
The words shout from the top of the page, more words that Edgar has somehow missed from his original read-through.
Maybe the curse of the book was to confuse you? It certainly worked on Edgar, then.
He shakes his head once more, flipping the page. This side seems thankfully shorter than the other one.
My son said there was a book with leather engraved engravings.
Right…
Sure.
I have left it here for you. Inside this package. Perhaps you could read it.
Edgar… isn’t sure he wants to, actually! If it is anything like the contents of the letter he just read, he’s happy to satisfy his curiosity by leaving it at that and going to his next class.
Hesitantly, he puts the book, with the letter still attached to the front, back on the shelf.
Chances are it won’t even be there the next day.
“Edgar?” Monty’s voice calls out, from somewhere near the entrance of the library.
“C-Coming!” Edgar shouts back. Just as he leaves, he glances back at the book one last time. Leather engraved engravings… he might have to ask Mr Hebden what that’s all about.
“You okay?” Monty asks, as Edgar finally reaches the boy. Neither Kevin nor Roland stand next to him – Edgar assumes they must have gone to class.
“Yeah,” Edgar replies. “Just… read a strange book. That’s all.”