Even, when Marluxia arrived, was looking through the shelves underneath the mezzanine level of the library. It was secluded and dimly lit, illuminated only by an assortment of dark-shaded standard lamps and wall sconces. It smelled, like any good library home to ageing books, dusty and strongly of the sweet, pleasant smell of longterm paper decay.

He ran a fingertip along the gilded names and authors of some leatherbound volumes and barely looked at others. The collection was remarkable. Some of the books were so old that their titles were positively archaic by Standard Spiran's current modern definition. Some were older still, being written in dead languages. He'd found a small section dedicated to Cetra writings, but they were mostly written on scrolls with only a few in properly bound books. Given the age of the palace, it was entirely possible that those weren't readable except by specialised scholars even when the place was inhabited by the intended residents.

He felt Marluxia enter the library. It was still hard to detect people at distance, to sort specific notes from the noise, but Marluxia was familiar enough. He scowled a little, having the distinct feeling that he was there specifically to see him. Intelligent as Marluxia undoubtedly was, he did not strike Even as the type who spent a lot of his free time surrounded by books.