The book under his arm was a fragment of The Registry, and the threads were fragments too, and fragments did not bar the way to other fragments. They welcomed them. He opened the door. The staircase was narrow, wooden, creaking under his weight. The air grew colder with each step, and the smell of books gave way to the smell of something else—something sweet, like the candy in the Archivist’s garden, but stronger now, almost cloying.
