13
The library of Mandridore is to die for.
I mean that almost literally. I’m sure I felt my heart stop when we walked in.
Tall people need a tall library, yes? This one soared up and up and up, to such a height there were wisps of cloud drifting near the ceiling. If there was a ceiling. No word of a lie, there really were, though I don’t suppose they ever took it upon themselves to rain. Every inch of every wall was covered in shelves housing perfectly-ordered rows of books. I looked for the traditional long ladders winding up the bookcases, but of these there was no sign. I did, however, spot a large tome floating at a leisurely pace down from a distant shelf. At Mandridore, one did not travel to the books; the books travelled to you.
I could get used to such a place.
‘When I die,’
