The walk to the library where Mr. Moore lived was very short-lived, For it was approximately 300 feet from the docks. It was as short as it was quiet; barren, save for the solemn crashing of the waves against rocks. There were no birds.

Mr. Moore propped the door open and pressed his back against it to make himself as small as possible to let her in. The air was not warmer inside by much, but it harbored her from the wind in exchange for dust and must. The first room she entered appeared to be the only room on the floor. Pushed to the side was a staircase that Mr. Moore would later show her to be the room or attic(depending if one categorized house pieces by their stately being and ability to be slept in) she would be sleeping in. Not that she planned to stay, of course. She only came for the warm soup, nothing more. But soon, as she would see the evening progress, shelter from the storm would become immeasurably more and more appealing.

The kitchen, dining, and living room were all connected in a cozy jigsaw where no pieces seemed to match, leaving much to be wanted in many places. But the things Mr. Moore used to fill those awkward gaps, Jemma observed, were books. They seemed to take on a life of their own, like the beginning of steam through a pot. Its concentration began by his shoe rack under muddy boots, trailing throughout his living room and plummed into neatly stacked piles by a side door. Which Jemma could only assume was the library. She’d only been there a few times, but hardly otherwise this far down the docks.

“Now, I know it isn’t much, but I’ll put the pot on the stove again since it’s probably cooled down by now. And once it gets boiling and the smell of beef and carrots warms the frost off yer lashes—it’ll feel a little bit more comfortable, I promise,” said Mr. Moore.

“Can I look in the library while you do that?” Jemma asked.

Mr. Moore took off his cap with a glint in his eyes and it made her wonder if she really was the first person in a long time to go this far down the docks. “Please do.”

It was freezing. But the books weren’t dusty. In fact, they were cleaner here than they were in his home. Pristine, it was; as big as you’d expect a library by the sea, which was no bigger than your local chippy. That is, even smaller than his first floor. 

The piece that took up the most room—which was surely an eyesore to those who did intentionally find themselves in the store—was a stone fireplace. Un-alight.

She hummed to herself, intrigued, and like a ghost, made her way closer. She flinched from the coolness of the stone’s touch against her fingertips. “Mr. Moore?” She called.

“Yes, dear?” Came his voice from the kitchen.

“Can we light the fireplace?”

It was silent for a moment too long, so she asked again. “Mr. Moore, can we light the fire place? I was just wondering because it’s quite co—“ An iron hand gripped her by the arm and yanked her away.

“DO NOT TOUCH THAT FIREPLACE, GIRL!” Mr. Moore roared.

Jemma yelped. “Let me go!”

He spun her around by the shoulders to make her face him. “Promise me. You will not light that.”

“But why? It’s cold!”

“It is forbidden!”

“You’re hurting me!"

“Promise!” He shook her.

“Fine! I promise. Now let me go.”

He released her and mumbled something under his breath. Jemma rubbed the place he held her, sure there would be a bruise the next morning. 

Jemma watched flabbergasted as he stumbled back into the kitchen. She let out a huff of air that was jammed in her lungs. You’d think she had just sent him into cardiac arrest. Perhaps it was because a fire in a library would be ill-advised, but it was far away from any page and well protected with ten inches of stone. If it was such a hazard, why was it even there?