Without glancing at the attendant, he slid them onto the swivel rack, one by one.
Inside, the bookstore’s walls and ceiling were laced with intricate patterns that resembled the roots of an ancient, enchanted tree. Soft amber light filtered through hidden lamps, casting shadows that seemed to shift and dance on their own. The air carried the scent of old paper, warm cedarwood, and something sweeter, a hint of pipe tobacco, as though the ghosts of authors past still lingered between the shelves. From somewhere deep within, a faint phonograph tune played: scratchy jazz that ebbed and flowed like a memory, mingling with the soft rustle of unseen pages turning themselves.
Paintings of James Joyce, Sinclair Lewis, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald watched over the store like wise spirits, their eyes seeming to follow visitors with quiet amusement. Movie posters of Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Nosferatu, Flash Gordon, Dick Tracy, and Metropolis shimmered faintly, touched by forgotten spells, their figures subtly shifting poses when no one looked directly at them.
Scattered among the shelves were curious objects: a brass astrolabe that ticked softly, though no one had wound it in decades; a glass orb on the counter that glowed faintly blue whenever a lie was spoken nearby; a quill pen that occasionally dipped itself into an invisible inkwell to scribble notes in forgotten languages on scraps of parchment. Beneath the front counter, a battered trunk occasionally rattled, as though something inside dreamed fitfully of escape.
William was very impressed and whimsied by what he perceived to be clever entertainment gadgets and stagecraft. He thought at any moment now he’d discover a secret door that led to a hidden theater featuring a magical Shakespearean play in progress. Visions of the Tempest popped into his head as he absorbed the store’s atmosphere.
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