Sarah Donnell Master librarian, and a hold of Donnell's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Sarah Donnell stood inside the empty library and counted the crates by the door. Twelve crates. Two hundred books. Bibles from the pastor, primers for the schoolhouse, storybooks her brother had hauled in from three towns over. She had a roof, a swept floor, and a painted sign that read Public Library above the green door. She had no shelves. The first crate she opened smelled of damp pine. A cover had already curled. She pressed it flat with her palm and felt the paper fight her. If she stacked these books on the floorboards, the bottom row would warp by the end of the week. The top row would topple when a child pulled one loose. No neighbor would browse a pile. No neighbor would come twice. She walked the room and measured with her steps. Four walls, one window seat, a low counter by the door. She wanted every wall lined with wood by nightfall. She wanted a child to walk in tomorrow and find a book at their eye level. That was the whole point. That was why she had left her old post and come to Donnellila when her brother called. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the sawmill. Jim Forster was inside with his father, feeding a log through the blade. Sawdust hung in the light. She waited until the cut finished. "I need shelving," she said. "Plank stock. Enough for four walls, floor to ceiling. I can pay in labor and in reading lessons for anyone in your house who wants them." Jim's father wiped his hands on his apron and looked at his son. Jim nodded once. "Give us the measurements," the older man said. "We'll cut today. Delivery by dusk." She wrote the numbers on a scrap of pine with a carpenter's pencil. Then she went to the forge and asked Rachel for iron brackets, twenty pairs, simple L-hooks. Rachel quoted her a price, then cut it in half when Sarah promised a shelf of cookery books facing the counter. By late afternoon the planks came on a cart. Randall carried the brackets in a leather bag. Sarah worked with them until the sun dropped, marking studs, driving nails, setting the first plank level against the north wall. When the last bracket went in, she stepped back. Four walls of empty shelves stared at her. The room smelled of fresh-cut pine and hot iron. She opened the crates and began to load. The Bibles went to the front, spines out, within reach of the door. The primers went low, where a small hand could find them. She worked past dark by lamplight. When she finished, one crate remained unopened. She lifted the lid. Every book inside was swollen, pages fused. Water had gotten in during the haul. Twenty ruined books, and no way to replace them before Sunday.