The Vampire Applied for a Library Card

How it begins

The man at the returns desk had brought a reference from a duke.

Ada read it twice.

The paper was real. The seal was real. The date was a problem.

"We usually ask for something issued this century," she said.

The man looked disappointed in a controlled, expensive way.

"The duke was considered reliable."

"I'm sure. Do you have a utility bill?"

"No."

"A tenancy agreement?"

"The house belongs to me."

"A bank statement?"

He hesitated.

"Would a chest of coins be intrusive?"

Behind him, the night-library volunteers had stopped sorting books. Ada lowered the reference onto the desk.

"What name would you like on the card?"

"Valentin Rook."

"And where do you live now, Mr. Rook?"

He gave the address of a department store demolished forty years earlier.

Ada turned her monitor so he could see the map.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he touched the outline of the shopping center that had replaced it.

"There was a garden," he said.

His voice had changed. The extravagant coat, the formal bow, the faintly alarming teeth: none of those had prepared her for the plain bewilderment of someone finding no place left to go.

"We can use a temporary contact address," she said. "The card doesn't have to happen tonight."

"May I still read?"

"Of course."

He looked toward the shelves with such relief that one volunteer quietly resumed her sorting.

Ada brought him a chair near the radiator. She explained the borrowing limit, the renewal system, and the difference between a fine and an eternal obligation.

He listened carefully.

At the end, he placed one gloved hand over his heart.

"I am in your debt."

"No," she said. "That's the first thing we're going to get right."

Then she handed him a novel and went back to the desk.