It couldn’t have been any more atmospheric, for on that early spring afternoon a dirty leaden light filtered feebly through the high narrow windows of the Robert Graves Memorial Reading Room. Outside one could hear the Winter wind as it broke loose and raged about like a recently-escaped jinn woken from a centuries-long dream of vengeance, tearing down curtains of cold rain while all the leafless trees bent low as if they were nothing more than trembling supplicants before a mad and merciless lord.
Within the dark-paneled walls of the Reading Room, we humans felt impervious to the temper of the maddened elemental as we stood or sat about, according to the inclination of each, holding hot cups of tea and still-warm scones (it need not be said that these were not the unholy blasphemies which certain shops in the cities would seek to fiendishly foist upon an ignorant populace which, seeking the comfort and consolation of real and right baked goods, is doomed to disappointment).
As it has already been mentioned, each person sat or stood according to inclination, some talking between themselves while others wandered idly amongst the shelves to peruse the seemingly infinite number of rare and arcane volumes, and one or two sat in the old leather wingback chairs before the crackling fire, silently turning pages and occasionally taking sips from old china teacups.
Iain Mackenzie and a couple of tweedy professorial types stood talking in front of one of the Reading Room’s locked cabinets (which feature some of the older and more fragile volumes), discussing arcane books, rare manuscripts, and the various obsessions of their fellow bibliophiles. They kept their murmured conversation low, but at one point one might have overheard the lady scholar say something about their old schooldays at Miskatonic University in Arkham.
Upon the old Victorian loveseat tucked away into a corner only dimly illuminated by the fire sat an older gentleman in an old-fashioned suit, the style of which may have dated it to the first decade of the previous century.
The gentleman appeared to be disinclined to speak to anyone, but did allow the library cat — which walks not in the spaces we know, but between them — to sit upon his lap. It purred as he idly petted it, staring absently into the flames of the fire.
Suddenly, the cat rose up, hissing, and flung itself at a particularly dense shadow between two tall bookcases which appeared to be amongst the most ancient in the library.
As if startled, the old gentleman bumped one hand against a bowl of sugar where it stood next to his hand, spilling a drift of sugar upon the small table next to him. His fingers moved quickly, as if sketching some strange device into the sand of sugar.
There came from the shadowy corner where the cat silently stalked the sound of something which scuttled as if with rat’s claws but with more than the usual number of legs, a slither of sound, a wisp of scent, suggestive of something which had never walked upon this world in the bright blessing of daylight.
Then it was gone and, half-smiling to himself as if in satisfaction, the strange gentleman in the old-fashioned suit sat back and took a sip of tea.
