Brennan’s favorite thing of his mothers would always be her bible, one that she’d had from her own grandparents, bound in a worn leather, with marking and notes stuck between pages, words worn from how many different generations had deliberated over the words within. Special, too as a Douay-Rheims version, unlike in much vernacular from the NAB version that most Catholics used these days. As a child he’d stood in awe of it, never feeling worthy to hold it, to read the words on the page that practically matched his own. It’d been the one thing she’d left expressly to him, otherwise all assets were split equally between Brennan and Bowie.
It felt worse than standing in front of the Dragonfly to be hesitating at the door to Tourne La Page with the bible in hand, under the innocent guise of wanting the binding restored without compromising the integrity of the book itself. As the bell rung to announce his entrance there was no choice but to enter, weaving through the stacks until he reached the desk, which at present laid dormant. But he knew, in no short time, the owner would reveal himself.
@walker-astor
