On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness by Andrew Peterson

with three eye sockets.
    â€œLook!” Tink whispered.
    Janner smiled, enjoying Tink’s excitement. On another shelf was a jar of dead, bright orange insects, and on yet another was a miniature wooden castle with a mouse watching them from the spire window. Janner came to a dead end and stopped in front of a shelf labeled B OOKS A BOUT B LACKSMITHING AND/OR P IE , and Tink, so focused on trying to read the spine of every book he passed, collided with him. Janner’s feet got tangled in themselves and he pitched forward. He tumbled to the floor, knocking over a fat, round candle from the shelf. Glaring at Tink, Janner picked up the oily greenish candle and set it back in place. A handwritten label on the candle said S NOT W AX . Janner retched, wiping his hands on the front of his tunic. 1
    â€œEh? Who’s there?” came a muffled voice from somewhere nearby. Suddenly several books on the shelf to their right slid backward and vanished—replaced by Oskar’s spectacled face peering at them from the other side. “Ah! Janner, Tink, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said with a smile. “There’s a lot of work to be done, so no dillydallying. Time for browsing later. Follow me.”
    The books slid back into place and Oskar’s footsteps thumped toward the back of the store. After three more dead ends, Janner and Tink found the owner of Books and Crannies pacing the floor of his storeroom with a pipe in his mouth.
    â€œNow lads, I’d have thought your Podo would have taught you better than to laze about while an old man like me needs your help. What in Aerwiar have you two been doing out there?” he said.
    â€œWe took a wrong turn at S KREEAN H ISTORY ,” Janner said, “and then another at P OINTLESS P OEMS and—”
    â€œNo matter,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I believe it was the great Chorton who wrote, ‘To worry over dallying brothers is not worth the trouble when a large shipment has just arrived.’ Or something to that effect.”
    Oskar’s wide desk was cluttered with stacks of parchment, various kinds of pipes, feather quills, and bottles of ink. A nearly spent candle sputtered on a brass candlestick and lit up an ancient-looking map that was unrolled on the center of the desk. Tink moved closer to examine it.
    â€œEasy, young Igiby,” Oskar said, scooting behind the desk and turning over the map. “Surely your big brother’s told you that not everything here is permissible for young eyes. There are mysteries in the world that should remain mysteries for the young.”
    Tink flushed, embarrassed that he was already in trouble. Janner caught his eye and gave him an encouraging wink.
    â€œWhere did all these books come from, sir?” Tink asked.
    Oskar’s eyes twinkled as they took in his shop with pride. It was easy to get Oskar to talk about his books. “The real question, young Tink, is where
didn’t
these books come from. I traveled all over Skree after the Great War, salvaging what could be salvaged. You wouldn’t believe the rubble. Those rotten Fangs burned our homes and cities to the ground. But as it always does, the dust settled. As the Skreeans began to unearth a life again, they also unearthed these treasures. Books. Only they weren’t treasures anymore. Not to everyone. I knew that I had to gather them up, preserve them.”
    At the mention of the Great War, Janner’s thoughts once again returned to his father. He had never asked Oskar if he had known his father, or if he knew any details about his death. Until recently, the subject was studiously avoided in the Igiby cottage. When he had found the picture in his mother’s room, it was as if a crack formed in the dam that held back his father’s memory; Esben Igiby was seeping into Janner’s thoughts, and there was no way to seal the leak.
    Janner wanted to ask Oskar what he might know, but Oskar was