The elevator opens in what looks to be the same stone column staircase with its suspended lanterns that Zachary remembers from before.
“Question,” he says.
“You’re going to have a lot of those,” Mirabel says as they climb the stairs. “You might want to start writing them down.”
“Where are we now, exactly?”
“We are in between,” Mirabel says. “We’re not in New York yet, if that’s what you mean. But we’re also not there anymore, either. It’s an extension of the elevator, way back in the day there were stairs and you kept walking and walking. Or you fell. Or there was just a door. I don’t know, there aren’t many records. Sometimes there aren’t stairs here but the elevator has been around for a while. Like a tesseract except for space instead of time. Or are tesseracts for both? I don’t remember, I’m ashamed of myself.”
They stop at a door at the top
of the stairs, set into the rock. A simple wooden door, nothing fancy, no symbols. Mirabel takes one of the keys from around her neck and unlocks it.
“I hope they didn’t put a bookcase in front of it again,” she says as she pushes it open a few inches and then stops, peering out the opening before pushing it open farther. “Quick,” she says to Zachary, pulling him through and closing the door behind them.
Zachary glances back and there is no door, just a wall.
“Look for it,” Mirabel says and then Zachary can make out the lines, pencil lines on the wall thin as paint cracks forming the door, a subtle shading that could be a smudge forming a handle above a mark that is more clearly a keyhole.
“This is a door?” he asks.
“This is an incognito door for emergencies. I don’t expect anyone to find it but I keep it locked anyway. I’m surprised they haven’t but I’m here a lot, they probably think it’s for different book-related reasons. Book places tend to be more receptive to doors, I think it’s because of the high concentration of stories all in one place.”
Zachary looks around. The slice of bare wall is tucked between tall wooden bookshelves stuffed full of books, some of them labeled with red signs that look familiar but he’s not sure why. Mirabel beckons him forward and as they move from the stacks out to a larger space with tables of books and another covered with vinyl records and more signs, past a few people browsing quietly, he realizes why the space is familiar.
“Are we at the Strand?” he asks as they walk up a wide flight of stairs.
“What gave you that idea?” Mirabel asks. “Was it that big red sign that says ‘Strand’ and ‘Eighteen Miles of Books’? That quantification feels inaccurate, I bet there’s more than that.”
Zachary does recognize the more crowded main floor of the enormous bookstore with its tables of new arrivals and best sellers and staff picks (he has always been fond of staff picks) and tote bags, lots of tote bags. It strikes him that it feels ever so slightly like the book-filled space somewhere below it, but on a smaller scale. The way a stray scent might feel like a remembered taste while not grasping the experience entirely.
They navigate their way past tables and shoppers and the long line by the cashiers but soon they are out on the sidewalk in a blisteringly cold wind and Zachary very much wants to go back inside because the books are there and also because linen pants were not designed for January snow and slush.
“It shouldn’t be too long to walk,” Mirabel says. “Sorry it’s so poetry today.”
“So what?” Zachary asks, not certain he heard her correctly.
“Poetry,” Mirabel repeats. “The weather. It’s like a poem. Where each word is more than one thing at once and everything’s a metaphor. The meaning condensed into rhythm and sound and the spaces between sentences. It’s all intense and sharp, like the cold and the wind.”
“You could just say it’s cold out.”
“I could.”
The light falling over the streets is low, late afternoon. They dodge pedestrians on their way up Broadway and by Union Square before taking a right and then Zachary loses his familiar Manhattan landmarks, the map of the city in his mind dissolving into gridded blocks that disappear into nothingness and river. Mirabel is better at dodging pedestrians than he is.
“We have a stop to make first,” she says, pausing in front of a building and opening a glass door, holding it open to allow a couple in layers upon layers of coats and scarves to exit.
“Are you serious?” Zachary says, looking up at the ubiquitous green mermaid sign. “We’re stopping for coffee?”
“Caffeine is an important weapon in my arsenal,” Mirabel replies as they go inside and join the end of the short line. “What would you like?”
Zachary sighs.
“I’m buying,” Mirabel prods. She pokes him in the arm. He doesn’t remember when she put on knit fingerless gloves and his own freezing extremities have glove envy.
“Tall skim milk matcha green tea latte,” Zachary says, annoyed that warm beverages actually seem like a good idea given the weather with its cold poetry.
“Got it,” Mirabel replies with a thoughtful nod like she’s sizing him up via Starbucks order. He’s not sure what matcha and foam say about him.