I wake up in an unfamiliar place. Not a bad place, though.

Shelves laden with books tower above me, reaching all the way up to a high ceiling. The air smells of parchment and ink; that beautiful scent you get when you open an old book.

I sit up and look around. It seems that I'm in a library of sorts, or an archive. Those shelves are enormous. They're higher than a house, and every inch of them is packed with books and scrolls. Some books look like they're about to fall apart, others are brand new.

"And who do we have here?" someone asks, his voice rough from age.

I stand and turn around, facing an old man with the longest beard I've ever seen. It reaches beyond his belt, falling in white, smooth curls. If he wasn't thin and lanky, he could be the spitting image of how most children imagine Father Christmas.

Bright green eyes look at me through thick glasses, sitting precariously on the very tip of his nose. He's smiling at me and I immediately have a good feeling about him. It's an honest, true smile.

"Who are you?" I ask in return and his smile widens.

"Where are my manners! I'm the Librarian."

I frown. "Don't you have a real name?"

"I do, but it doesn't matter. I'm the Librarian, and that's all there is to it. Now, who are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

His smile is turning cheeky, as if he's playing with me.

"Wyn... ehm, Wynter. Where exactly am I?"

"Look around you. Isn't it obvious?"

I voice the suspicion I had since I woke up.

"Am I in the Library of Lives again?"

He gives me an approving nod. "You are indeed. Shall I give you the tour?"

I'm still looking around in wonder. For someone like me, this is paradise. The Palace Library is nothing compared to this.

"I've been in the Library of Lives before, but it looked very different. More... like an office."

He chuckles. "You were in the administration wing. This here is the heart of the Library, the place where everything comes together. Come, I'll show you."

He walks along the narrow corridor, expecting me to follow. Still a bit dazed, I hurry to keep up with his long strides. I'm breathing in the beautiful smell of old books and with every breath, my heart gets a little lighter. This place is amazing. A dream come true.

"The library is formed like a circle with twenty spokes. We're in the dark ages spoke just now, so let's go to something more modern. Although I love reading about the lives of some of the people back then," he says, looking wistfully at one of the books we pass.

"How many books are there?" I ask, having a hard time imagining that there are books from centuries ago.

The Librarian shrugs. "I've never counted, and new ones are added each day. Whenever a child is born, a new book is created. The Library makes space for them, and somehow, it lets us find what we need."

I let that sink in for a moment, before asking, "Does that mean every person has a book in here?"

"Didn't I just say that?"

"Yes, but... there are billions of people. How can all those books fit into one room, even one as large as this?"

He laughs. "You're thinking in human terms. Here, everything is possible. The Library isn't human, it's so much more than that. Every person who's ever lived has a book here, and they're all in this room. Tell me someone random and I'll prove it to you."

"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart." No idea why I picked my favourite composer, but for this, I suppose he's as good as any.

We finally reach the end of the Dark Ages spoke and enter a circular space with a round table in the middle, surrounded by leather chairs. On the table are heaps of old-fashioned index cards, some of them scribbled on, others unused. Pens are lying all around, giving the impression that usually, people are working here.

The Librarian takes an empty card and writes Mozart with a flourishing script onto it. The writing glows silver for a moment, then a new line of text appears.

He notices me confused look and gives me a smile. "It saves us from having to search entire spokes. The Library tells us where to go. It's rather ingenious."

Without further explanation, he walks around the table and enters a new corridor of shelves, and I have to almost run to keep up with his large strides. It doesn't take long for him to stop and look at a dark mahogany shelf board. Just like all the others, it's bending under the weight of the books tightly stashed on top of it.

He glides a finger along the spines of the books until he finds the one he's looking for. It's a red tome, bound in thick leather.

On the spine, Mozart's name is embossed in gold.

He hands me the book and looks at me expectantly.

"Open it."

I do as he asks, turning the first page with anticipation. It only states the years of his life, 1756 to 1791, but as soon as I turn the next page, it gets more interesting.

Day 1: Birth. A very unpleasant affair. Got to meet my parents and older sister.

Day 2: Christening. I cried a lot when the water touched my head.

What the...

"Is this for real?" I ask the Librarian, who's peeking over my shoulder, reading what I just read.

"It very much is, yes. We all write our books of life in a different way. Some write it like a diary, others are like biographies in the third person. Some don't contain any words, but drawings. Skip a few years ahead."

I turn about fifty pages and suddenly, the sentences turn into music. Mozart no longer thinks in words, but in musical notes. I flick through the pages, in awe of his work. There are entire symphonies in this book.

"Is this the music he wrote, or something else entirely?"

The Librarian strokes his long beard. "Both, I believe. I recognise a few of the pieces of music in there, but a lot aren't familiar to me at all. It's an astonishing book, certainly. A lot easier to read than that of Pythagoras, or," he shudders, "Kafka."

"Is it only the important people who have books here?"

He frowns. "Child, didn't you listen? Everybody has a book in the Library, from the most nondescript peasant to the greatest kings. Gods, too. There is nobody, alive or dead, who doesn't have their book in this room."

"Even you?"

"Even me. Although we're not allowed to look at our own books. They're hidden from us, so I've never even seen mine."

"Aren't you tempted to read it?"

He chuckles. "Why? I prefer to live my life, rather than read about it afterwards. Living in the present is much more important than doing deeds to be admired for in the future. Not that anybody would ever admire me. I'm just the Librarian."

Somehow, I know that he is a lot more than just the caretaker of this Library. He's got an air around him that reminds me of that of a God. Is there a God of Books? I'll need to ask my mother.

Which makes me think...

"Does my mother have one?"

"Of course, but it's under lock and key. Beira's life, knowledge and experiences are far too dangerous for people to read. If you want to look at it, you'll have to ask her permission. But before you do that, ask yourself, would you want anyone to read your own book?"

It doesn't take me long to think about that. No, of course not. It's too personal. Maybe once I'm dead, but even then... And besides, I'm kind of Immortal now. Which begs the question, why I'm in the Library now. I thought only dead people came here. But I passed all the tests the last time I was here, I shouldn't be dead.

How did I not ask this when I woke up?

Oh yes, the books distracted me. Books tend to do that.

"Am I dead?" I ask him bluntly, and the Librarian smiles at me benevolently. He's got something grandfatherly about him, something that makes me want to hug him.

"Only if you choose to be," he says mysteriously.

"Why would I choose to be?"

"Some Immortals get tired of living, so sometimes, they get to choose whether they want to continue their lives or pass on. That is the only time we are allowed to look in our own books - the time we make the decision between life and death. Of course, mortals don't get to make that decision, so they'll never even know these books exist."

I feel bad for my adoptive parents, my friends, hell, everybody I knew on Earth. They're living in a world without magic, one that I used to be in but which now feels very far away.

"Does that mean I died and can be revived if I choose to?" I ask him, trying to make sense of it all.

"No, you haven't died. Not yet, anyway. For now, time is frozen at the exact point where you could die."

His eyes unfocus for a moment, then his sharp gaze returns.

"There was an explosion, right?"

I nod. "I think my magic flared. I don't really remember."

"It's about to collapse part of the Royal Palace. Your mother is transporting all the people out of it, but your barriers are up and she cannot reach you. Your choice is simple: let her save you or die."

"My Guardians are safe?"

He smiles indulgently.

"Everybody is safe. You're not deciding about anybody else's life. Just your own."

I'm struggling to think of a reason why I wouldn't want to live. I'm happy, right? I have four loving men, I'm healthy, I have my parents...

Wait.

It's as if I'm suddenly doused in cold water.

How could I forget? My mum is dead. My father a prisoner of the Morrigan.

I'm not happy. I was sad, so terribly alone and filled with hate.

Those emotions are only echoes now; this place is filtering out all the negative feelings and leaving just the good ones. Almost like Blaze's sparklies, but less fake. I can see that now. The sparklies only covered the bad things in a thick covering of sweetness, but underneath, it was all still there.

Here, it's not like that at all. I'm at peace here, despite knowing what happened. Like I'm distant from my emotions.

For the first time in weeks, I can think rationally. Not the imposed cold rationality I gained by locking away my very essence. By holding everybody at arm's length.

"Can I have a moment?" I ask the Librarian and he gives me a nod. "Just call when you need me, or once you've made a decision."

As soon as he's out of sight, I run back to the centre of the room, where the large round table is sitting. I take one of the index cards and hastily scribble my mum's name on it, getting ink all over my fingers.

The card flashes and a moment later, a row of text appears below the name.

Spoke 19, 4th shelf on the right, third from the bottom.

I turn around in a circle, looking for the correct spoke. Luckily, each of the shelved corridors leading away from the centre space have metal signs strung above them.

I find number 19 and hasten along it until I'm standing in front of the fourth shelf. It's a more modern one than Mozart's book stood on, made of bright polished beechwood. I don't even have to look for the right book, it's glowing and vibrating as soon as I come close.

The book is a lot thinner than that of Mozart's, but it's lined with something that looks like burgundy silk, putting it apart from the other books on the shelf. Gingerly, I take it and open it at a random page.

There are no words in it, just sketches, in the style she used to plan her paintings. Delicate strokes, precise and purposeful. The first image I see is that of a baby with full cheeks and a large smile, lying on a large pillow. I assume that's me. It must have been shortly after I was brought to Earth and given to my parents.

I turn the page. Another picture of me, this time a little older, crawling on the floor, looking very pleased with myself. I smile at the same time as tears fill my eyes. Even though there are no words in my mother's book, I can feel her essence in it. The love she had for me. The love she had for living. She was always so full of energy and happiness.

I flick past more images of me as a child until I reach one of her and my dad. They're sitting on a bench, hand in hand, looking at each other with unmistakable love in their eyes. It doesn't show the setting of this memory, but it doesn't matter, the important thing is the feelings they had for each other. Even after so many years together, they could still have moments like that.

With a heavy feeling in my stomach, I turn to the final page. It's a sketch of a dark room; most of the paper is filled with rushed, thick pen strokes. In the darkness, a fuzzy shape of a man, looking straight at me. His eyes are as filled with love as the picture of the bench. My dad is showing her what she means to him. It must have been the last thing she saw before the Morrigan killed her. At least he was there with her. She wasn't completely alone.

I glide my fingers over the page. I almost expect the drawing to smudge, but it's somehow part of the page, the ink deep inside the paper. Suddenly desperate to see my mother's face one last time, I flick through the pages, but there are none. Sketches of her parents, of a young version of my dad, a lot of me, but not a single drawing of herself. As if she didn't think herself important enough to be in her very own book. She's always been far too modest. We had to persuade her to show her paintings in an exhibition, and even then, she didn't believe people would want to see them. Only when they were all bought within the first day at the gallery, she started to be a little more confident in her abilities. But even when she had dozens of orders, she still kept her modest, down-to-earth outlook on her art. She wasn't doing it for the money, but because she needed to let the paint out of her body, as she used to say. I never really understood that until I saw the book. Now I know what she meant.

Mum.

A tear drops on my father's face, and I know what to do. I need to go back, I need to find him and make sure he's safe. And I need to tell my Guardians that I want them to be look at me in the same way my dad looked at my mum, even after twenty years of marriage. I want them to be mine forever. I may not be worthy of them, but I'm going to try everything in my power to heal the gashes I drove between us in the past weeks.

I've been an idiot.

Beira might rule with coldness and little emotion, but I'm not Beira.

She's waning at the same time as the Summer King, Angus, is rising in power. She thinks I don't know, but I've noticed how her energy is less, how she looks a little lost sometimes.

She's getting weaker. Her method isn't working. I need passion to counter Angus and the Morrigan, not cold-hearted detachment from the world and those who love me.

And I certainly don't need sparklies. Maybe it's a good thing that Blaze is gone. Temptation can be an evil little thing, attacking you when you least expect it.

"Librarian?" I call out and carefully put my mother's book back in its place on the shelf.

"Yes, my dear?"

He's suddenly standing behind me, as if he appeared out of thin air. Somehow, that seems likely.

"I'd like to go back, please. I have a lot of unfinished business."

He smiles at me.

"Of course. Are there any other books you'd like to look at while you're here?"

I think about it for a moment. It would be tempting to see what my Guardians think about me. Or I could look at my father's book, but I'm scared to see what may be happening to him just now.

"Can you tell if a person is dead?"

He smiles again. "Your father is still alive, dear. But you already knew that, didn't you, in here..."

He points at his chest.

"Ready?"

I nod.

"Take me home."