First Day: Page Turner

“Good morning,” I say to the pony in the mirror, carefully straightening her bowtie. “First day?” She nods. “Well good luck. Be sure to make a good impression.” I lift my name tag off the nightstand and pin it on. “You ready?”

Well, am I?

I stand up straight as I can and examine my mirror-self. The uniform is crisp and new and the red velvet jacket fits me very well for being a generic size “medium.” Though surely that unicorn in the mirror can’t be me--not some third tier assistant librarian from Manehattan’s research branch. No, no, the unicorn in the mirror is a rising star: Page Turner, First Page of the Royal Canterlot Archive!

I begin to giggle hysterically. “Page Turner, First Page.” I repeat. Lovely. My dream job makes me sound like a Daring Do character. Perhaps I have Celestia’s infinite humor to thank for this opportunity.

I take a step back. In her red jacket and bow tie, the pony in the mirror looks every bit the professional. Like she belongs running the most prestigious library in Canterlot. I keep scanning her face, trying to find myself in there somewhere. Maybe the Page Turner who once misfiled all the biographies under biology had gotten on a different train, and this young promising go-getter ended up in Canterlot instead. I guess the clothes really do make the mare.

“You are going to be fine Page.” I tell the unicorn in the mirror. “You are good at this. You’ve always been good at helping people find what they need. And that’s your job. Helping people. You are going to be fine.”

Actually, yeah. I am going to be fine. Old Sans Serif will eat her words faster than those stupid alfalfa chips she always keeps at the desk. I am going to do a great job. And then I will get transferred out of her tiny department and I will never reshelve books again.

I toss my mane, and cough sternly into my hoof. Every inch a proper librarian.

I’m the boss now.

And I am so going to ace this.

So.

Turns out I am the only Page of the Royal Canterlot Archive.

I’m not sure what I expected.

Glory? Prestige? Something impressive to put on my resume? I mean this is the Canterlot Archive! Repository of the rarest magical texts in all of Equestria! And this is me--running it--for at least a week!

...By myself. That’s impressive right?

Okay, the letter was a tad vague. But an “Emergency Relief Position” “Managing the Archive” does seem to imply.... Well, that there was someone to be managed. Or something.

I look up from the desk. The soft silence of dust and books hangs in the air, forbidding sound with the quiet magic of libraries. Not just a few books. Thousands. Millions. The main archive is almost three times the size of the Manehatten Public Library, I remember--and that doesn’t even include the specialty wings.

Well look on the bright side, if there’s no one else here, then I can’t get stuck in some back room reshelving the cookbooks to reflect the most trendy Manehatten taste palette.

Yeah. Right. I got this. I absently shuffle the papers on the desk as I turn back to the neat, typed instructions left by Bound Volume, whose empty shoes suddenly feel impossibly big.

...While I must attend to my Aunt’s unfortunate resizing, this absence comes at a most inconvenient time, I am afraid, in that I was in the middle of the archive’s bicentennial re-alphabetization. I have already completed the first one hundred and twenty seven shelves--that is Aaaah: Spells for a Fearful Heart by Aaaalabaster Boo through Gnostic Theory of Subtropical Changling Magic by Hatty Pinboard. You will need to continue this task between helping patrons. The shelves need to be back in order and accurately alphabetized by the end of next week when the court unicorns are coming to renew the indexing spells.

Attached you will find the official protocol to follow when reshelving the remaining two hundred and twenty three stacks to reflect the modern Equestrian linguistic shifts...

I blink.

...reshelving the remaining two hundred and twenty three stacks…

I blink again.

...reshelving...
... two hundred and twenty three...

Quite suddenly it feels as though a great deal of fluid has drained out of my head. I look up again at the miles of shelving. Not just a few books. Thousands. Millions. Almost three times the size of the Manehatten Public Library. And I have to reshelve them. In a week. Well actually, says some detached part of my brain, technically, you only have to reshelve two-thirds of them.
...I think I’m going to go faint. Or puke. Maybe both.

I shouldn’t do that at the front desk. That wouldn’t be very professional. I feel myself spin around with some notion of finding a trash can, but my legs tangle together and instead I fall flat on my face. The cold marble pulls me back to the world, brain letter soup resolving into a single solid thought:

My dream job is just my old job, but harder. A lot harder.

A distant chiming of bells drifts in through a high window marking the hour: 8 o'clock. With a sudden swell of magic, lights throughout the archive flicker on. With calm precise unison doors on all sides open up. Like clockwork, in a beautiful moment, the Canterlot Archive comes alive.

I remember that I am on the floor.

I straighten up, feeling my mane flop about haphazardly. What if there are people here? Important people! This is the Canterlot Archive! The most important mages in Canterlot could be waiting outside with some vital question which could determine the fate of all Equestria! I swallow but nothing seems particularly interested in going down.

What if they were waiting at the desk right now? I peek out over the wood rim.

The silence is deafening. I pull myself up the desk, flattening my hair with a hoof. I catch my reflection in a polished brass plaque: hair’s a mess, glasses askew, coat rumpled. Every inch a pony way out of her depth. I blink.

The pony in the reflection frowns, straightening her bow tie, “First day?”

I nod.

Author's Notes:

I had a hell of a time tagging this story. Fimfiction simply not have the structure for posting mysteries, I remain confused as to how to communicate what they hell I'm writing. It's just... IT IS A SLICE OF LIFE ADVENTURE, I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO TELL YOU.

Saturday: Spike

Reshelving tomes of unspeakable arcane might in Canterlot turns out to be rather similar to reshelving cookbooks in Manehatten.

First, I find the boundaries of each subject heading under the Library of Canterlot system. Then I run a quick locator spell for any stray books. Once I’ve collected all the volumes in a given section, I arrange them alphabetically by author, then title, and then I replace them on the shelf block by block. Double checking that I haven’t missed any books using a cataloging spell, I finish up and move onto the next section.

Rinse, repeat.

I suppose I should be paying attention to what I’m doing, but after the third or fourth shelf I just can’t be bothered anymore. Some part of my brain entirely devoted to this sort of work takes over, leaving the rest of me open to ponder my life choices.

It’s not that I regret taking this job. Working at the Archive—it’s still my dream job, you know? This is a great opportunity. I sigh, trying to remember whether translations of the same work went by translator’s name or edition number. I guess...it’s not what I expected. I haven’t seen a single pony in the in the Archive at all and I’ve been reshelving for hours. (Edition, I think.) Isn’t this supposed to be this all-important research hub? Shouldn’t I be up to my neck in people to help? It’s more than that, though. There’s this feeling down in my gut that, I don’t know, this isn’t what I’m here for. This is not who I am meant to be.

With another sigh and a quick spell I finish up under Necromancy. Somehow, I doubt existential angst comes standard at my age. I turn the corner, my brain set to repeat the five step program for the next shelf. Welcome the exciting world of Thaumaturgical Dualism: I will be my own guide through this lonely literary wasteland.

Except, the aisle isn’t empty.

There is, in fact, a dragon in this aisle.

Not a big dragon. He’s a head shorter than me at least. But from his expression he is clearly in a state of informational distress. My neck straightens. Finally! A question to answer. This is more like it. Come on, Page, you’re great with questions! First thing’s first: get his attention. …How do you politely address a dragon? Sir? Madam? I can’t just say “hello library user”—that would be rude. ‘Dragon’ seems wrong. Gentlecolt would be very, very wrong. Patron seems too detached, but I can’t exactly just go ‘hey, you!’ either. Well, you have to say something, now you’re hovering.

The dragon mumbles to himself, staring intently at a scrap of paper clutched in his claw. Variations on the same sounds over and over, until finally he throws it down to the floor in frustration. “Come on, Twilight! How did you expect me to read this?!”

Without warning, I sneeze.

The dragon jumps six inches and staggers backwards into his pile of books.

I rush forward. “Oh my—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say, picking him back up and placing him on his feet. “I meant to, well, you know, ask if you needed any help because you seemed to be having trouble.” He stares up at me like I caught him taking cookies from the cookie jar. “I just—I got so distracted by the fact that you’re a dragon. I didn’t expect to see a dragon in the library, you know. It put me right out of my head. I forgot to say anything at all, didn’t I? Like my name. Oh gosh, I still haven’t introduced myself! I’m Page Turner.” I put out a hoof to shake, feeling the blood pool in my face. Smooth Page. Smooth.

“Oh…” He swallows and stares back at me. “Uh…” he trails off.

I realize what I just said. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you being a dragon! Or with dragons using libraries. It’s just, er, I mean, I guess I thought dragons would prefer their information in a less, um, less flammable form.”

Silence. Wide eyes. Now I’ve done it. My first real question and I’ve absolutely terrified the poor guy. Probably insulted his entire species to boot!

Relax, Page. Start over. There’s a reason he’s here. Whatever it is, you need to help him. That’s why you’re here. I look down at the petrified purple dragon. He seems a bit young to be a powerful sorcerer. But what do you know about dragons, Page? The only one you’ve ever even heard of works with--

“Oh.” It hits me. “You’re Twilight Sparkle’s assistant, aren’t you? The Princess’s student? Are these books for her?” At the name he perks up. Then almost instantly his eyes drop directly to his feet.

“Uh, um… yeah. That’s right.” He puts out his own hand. “...Spike. My name is Spike.”

“What can I do for you, Spike?”

He glances up at me and coughs. Then quickly he bends over to gather up the books he knocked over. As he stands up the words just seem to spill out of him all at once: “Twilight just sent me down to pick up some books for her—but I can’t read her notes and she...she needs them right away you know so...” He trails off like he’s run out of steam. I smile, because I’ve been there. He’s just shy, the poor guy.

“Well, Spike, that sounds important. We’d better find them pronto!” I pick up the note off the floor. He reaches out a hand as if to grab it away from me, then stops. I pause. Am I not supposed to read this? What if it’s something personal? Or secret? I don’t want to intrude, I just assumed a second pair of eyes would help. I’m not really sure what I am supposed to do now. I can’t exactly help him if I don’t know what he’s looking for. But I guess he never actually asked for my help. I wait. He doesn’t take the scrap out of the air, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand either. For a moment we’re frozen, eyes locked. I breathe, and incline my head slightly, without breaking eye contact. “...may I?”

Spike frowns, then nods and pulls back his hand. All right then Page, that’s your cue. I look down at the scrap of parchment covered in tight scribbles. To my dismay, it’s clearly been torn from a book. …I’m sure there’s a good reason for that.

At first I can’t make out a thing, then suddenly my eyes acclimatize. It’s a list of half a dozen book titles crammed in haphazardly, no authors. From the looks of things Spike found and marked off the first three, then had trouble where the writing gets more cramped.

“Let’s see…” I squint at the list, which helps on the more cramped bits. “Magic over Mind, that’s right around here, actually.” I say turning to the shelf. “It’s by…” I scan the titles “Ah yes... Magic Over Mind: The History and Practice of Enchantment, by A. Moral.” I pull it off the shelf and add it to his stack of books. “And then, hm… what’s next...” I check the list. “On Purity and Self, that’s that book by Clear Vision. She uses a pen-name, I think. Check over there on the bottom shelf, would you Spike? Try under Vovesia.”

Spike trots over to the end of the shelf, brushing his claw lightly along the books. “Got it!” He says, pulling out a tall book bound in red leather.

“Right” I say, returning to the list with purpose. “Now we just need…” I squint again. “The Arcane Anima by...” I pause, staring at the list. A strange feeling creeps over me.

There are 6 books laid out in a circle. They are on all sorts of topics: Deep Magical Theory, Enchantment, Purification, the Nature of Memory, Clairvoyance, even one the anatomy of the Soul. In the center of the circle there is a space for another book, but it is empty. Without it the other books are just a random collection of thoughts. Disjointed. Drifting. But add the keystone and—

Slam!

Spike adds his book to the stack and looks up at me. “By who?”

I blink. “Oh. Bucephalus. Should be there,” I say pointing, then after a pause “Spike, are you sure this is the whole list? Twilight didn’t want anything else?”

Spike almost drops the book. “What? W-why do you ask?”

“Oh, well, it’s… kind of hard to explain.” I say scanning the shelf. My brain tries to snatch at the threads of thought that are already unraveling. The keystone. What connects all these books together? “I guess I’m not quite sure what she’s looking for.”

“Oh, nothing specific!” Spike says quickly. “Just odds and ends: a reference book here, a spell book there. Twilight, you know. Magic things. She’s always doing like twelve things!”

“Well, maybe I’m wrong then, but here.” My hoof stops on a dark green spine, with its title in flaking gold letters: True Natures. I pull it out and add it on top of Spike’s stack. “Take this to Twilight too, I think she’ll find it useful for her research.”

Spike looks at me strangely. Then brightens. “Of cou—" he starts, giving a half-salute, then suddenly looks quite silly, "I mean, sure. Will do."

I laugh. “Well okay then, let’s go check these out.” We walk back to the desk. Spike is quiet, but in a different sort of way. Gives me this warm-fuzzy feeling. I really feel like we’ve connected. I stamp his books with a due date one month from today

“Oh we just need them for the week.” Spike says, then adds: “Twilight, uh, never keeps a library book too long,”

“Well, I hope these help.” I say, pushing the last book across the desk.

Spike smiles, then looks suddenly crestfallen. “I sure hope so too.” He says and turns away. I watch as he totters off, carefully balancing his tower of books.

I stare after him for a moment, then shrug at my reflection out of the corner of my eye. “Odd little guy, isn’t he?”

Author's Notes:

Okay! Second Chapter down. Now the REAL plot starts.

Here we start the main format for this story: Page helps various characters in the library and through their problems discovers clues about mysterious events happening elsewhere. It's an interesting truth/lies set up, begging all sorts of exciting questions: Will Twilight find what she's looking for? Can Page Turner save the day from the mysterious threat? Will the Truth set you free? Or are some things better left unknown?

*Makes spooky noises*