The Historians Society ruined me for libraries for the rest of eternity.

It was on the ground floor, at the entrance, but Pete told me it climbed nine stories. Books were everywhere- neatly filed by subject in all manners of bookshelves. Some were light wood, and stand alones, while others were a floor to ceiling turquoise number. Other volumes were stacked on chairs, tables, even just haphazardly piled on the floor.

The furniture was, much like the bookshelves, delightfully mismatched, such as the pairing of an enormous brown leather sofa and a craftsman's bench that had been lowered. There were wall length windows everywhere, giving the room a whitish-gold glow to it that let you watch dust motes spiral through the air, the perfect light for reading.

And the smell! It was the smell I had come to associate with words- musky and a little bit sweet.

As soon as we entered and I had taken in the scenery, Pete pulled me over to a little laptop, balanced precariously on a TV tray in the middle of the room. The screen was open to a blueprint of each of the library's floors, with a little search bar at the bottom. He typed in Marco Polo, and at least a dozen sizable areas on the blue print lit up white, not to mention the isolated spots I assumed were single books. Pete, hands braced on the TV tray, let his head drop and sigh. I checked my watch as the printouts of Pete's search results shot out of the small printer connected to the laptop.

It was nine in the morning. "Well, at least we have eight hours to get through it all. I'll take the upper floors."

***

An hour and a half later, Pete and I found ourselves at the workbench, surrounded, by my count, by no less than eighty-four books. Biographies, conspiracy theories, obviously a few copies of The Travels of Marco Polo. Research papers, annotated copies of Marco's memoir, analyzing the parts that must have been fabricated.

We worked in silence for a half hour or so, scratching down anything that seemed even remotely pertinent, pausing only to read certain passages aloud, before I asked, "What about you? What are your favorite last words?"

Pete grinned at me over the top of a book titled: Marco Polo; The Man, the Fraud, the Failure. "Easy. Voltaire. As he was dying, a priest asked him to denounce Satan, and he responded, 'Now is not the time for making new enemies.'"

I chuckled. It seemed like something Pete would say, quietly funny and ridiculously witty.

We lapsed again into silence.

"So, what's your beef with this Brock McGovern guy?"

Pete, who had been marking up a map with little red Sharpie circles, each representing somewhere notable that Marco had visited, went rigid.

"What do you mean?" He asked without looking up.

"Well, now, for instance. You're gripping that poor Sharpie so hard your knuckles are white.'

He glanced down, dropping the Sharpie. "We had... personal issues, in the past." He went back to the map, effectively bringing the conversation to an end. Well, give the man a political office, because he sure has mastered the art of saying nothing.

It's none of your business, Jamie.

And that's relevant, because...?

I made a mental note to ask Oliver later. If I played my cards right, I wouldn't even have to wait until he was drunk.

I resumed the task of adding to my already ten pages of notes on the more pivotal aspects of Polo's travels.

Through Persia...

Helped write memoir in prison...

Never signed his will...

I sighed, and threw my head down on top of the book.

I could practically feel him grinning. "First research haul sucks, huh?"

"I want to gouge my own eyes out with a fork."

"Speaking of forks, what do you say we take a break and grab a bite to eat?"

I agreed, and we headed off down the flights of stairs, to the second floor, where Pete informed me was the utility floor. The cafeteria, the laundry room, the infirmary, they were all here.

The cafeteria was an ungodly terror, crowded and loud and congested. Luckily, Pete's focus was like a freaking laser beam. He grabbed us both a burger from under one of those little heat lamp things.

"You mind if we eat somewhere else? You pick. Just... anywhere else," he shouted over the incessant chatter of hundreds of people crammed together at tables, arguing and gesticulating and laughing.

I nodded. "Please," I shouted back.

Pete grinned hugely. "I have just the place."

He led me up five (5) levels to a small alcove, just off the staircase. There was a small bench tucked inside it, covered in papers and books. It seemed Pete hadn't been expecting these, and he blushed. "Sorry, er, let me just..." He swept all of the stuff to one segment of the bench and sat down. "I've been coming here since I was fourteen, and I'm the only one who ever sits here, so it's just kind of become my junk drawer." He gestured to a small black notebook balanced on top of a stack of folders next to me. "For instance, I believe that if you open that notebook, you'll find the first draft of a novel I tried to write when I was seventeen. If I remember correctly, it's a thinly veiled existential crisis."

He snatched it out of my reach.

Christ, it was like he knew me.

"Oh, a good old fashioned existential crisis is nothing to be ashamed of," I smiled. "I find them to be quite theraputic. You find that all of the other stress in your life sort of melts away when you're obsessing over the epic fruitlessness of human consciousness."

Pete cocked an eyebrow. "Is that so? Have some stress that needed melting yourself, huh, teenager?" He laughed lightly.

"Yeah, I kind of do," I said quietly, focusing on my burger.

"Oh. Right. Hey, I'm really sor-"

"It's fine," I interrupted. "I was just being angsty."

"No, you weren't."

"Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

Now it was his turn to focus on his burger.

"Pete? Just tell me."

He looked at me, and there was pain reflected in his eyes. "You won't remember this now, but we- me, Oliver, and Minnie- we came to check on you at Fiona's-" he spit the name- "house. We knocked on..."