The scroll cases are catching on the shelves, the sharp tang of their leathers adding flavour to the smoke. It is mouthwatering, like cooking pig steaks over coal. It is a horror, because these books are wonderful. The stacks are too perfect and plain to be human, the edges obedient to geometry, not masonry. That first book on the left is the lost Anatomy of Anaximander, in which he describes the function of organs and the physical location of the soul. That over there is the Song of the Magdalen , not the Christian one but her more terrible predecessor who was the hidden sister of the Karites, and in whom was vested the twinned grace of amnesis and regenesis. Over there are the lost designs of Theano for an engine deriving power from the expansion of heated water, that she said would reshape the practice of war and trade and compel the world to fit in the compass of her arms. That is the vision diary of ’Arkyn of D’mt, in which she foretells the history yet to come of the nation of Aksum for two thousand years. Works I have heard of, but never seen anywhere. Works beyond price, because their wisdom is matched only by their scarcity: more than likely these are the only copies in the world. Perhaps they are the only copies in any world.