The Library of Time

“A kilogram of time, please.” The woman’s eyes loomed like two full moons through her thick spectacles. I put down my quill. I hadn’t seen her come in.

“Category?” I asked, pulling out a blank lending request parchment. 

“Biological.”

I peered at her closer. She was perhaps fifty years old with curly black hair, wearing a patchwork dress. She didn’t seem the type.

“Very well. Surname?”

“Yadav.”

I murmured as I scratched down her request. “A kilogram of the Library’s biological time for Mrs. Y–”

“Ms.”

“Quite. Ms. Yadav.”

I hit the golden bell on my desk. Assistant Cleavely, in his red uniform, shuffled over and took the parchment before plunging into the depths of the Library’s shelves.

“Thank you.” Ms. Yadav squinted at my name badge. “Miss Henfield.” She stepped to one side and peered intently towards the shelves, as if her thick spectacles were telescopes.

            I tried not to stare at her. I was used to vain peacocks of gentlemen and women strutting up to the Library to borrow the iridescent blue paste of biological time. They would stand right here and rub it into their faces, preserving their youth. Of course, when the Library inevitably took the loan back, their skin would furrow like melting candle wax as they aged all at once, plus some extra – an inescapable late fee, of sorts.

            Assistant Cleavely wheezed back clutching a wooden box. Ms. Yadav placed the time into her handbag and walked out into the drizzly London day. Not the type, at all.

            Sidestepping her, a mousy man scurried in and asked for fifty milligrams of the right time. Indeed, the Library’s towering mahogany aisles contained all manner of time to borrow.

            The right time was a sour snort of alarmingly green powder. You’d have one of those days where everything just seemed to go right. Remembered time came as hard blue sweets, popped onto the tongue and sucked. Excellent for unlocking times long gone by, with the understanding that once returned, the borrower would cease to remember much of that period at all. Perceived time came in crystal decanters, from which borrowers would inhale swirling red vapour. Their next hours would seem to speed up – good for work and long journeys, or slow down – often used for last moments with loved ones. Chronological time, incredibly rare, was a shimmering golden powder.

            Yes, as much time as there was under the sun, there was in the Library. And oh, how that had once captured my imagination. Well, the reality was, I mostly gave out the right time for married men to sneak out to the brothels unobserved, like this mousy client.

            I filled out his request form. At the end of the day, the Library was there to serve the vain, the foolish, and the selfish. Ms. Yadav undoubtedly fit one of those categories. I simply didn’t know which.

            ###

“A kilogram of time, please.”

I nearly dropped my teacup. The woman’s footsteps were virtually inaudible.

“Didn’t you come in yesterday, Ms. Yadav?”

“Indeed,” she said.

“And you need more time, already? It’s… unusual.”

“It’s not a crime to be unusual, is it? Anyway,” continued Ms. Yadav, “today, I’d like some remembered time.”

“Anyone with an ounce of self-preservation knows to use the Library sparingly. The time will be taken back from your future.”

“Luckily, I am not hindered by a sense of self-preservation. My time, please.”

I sighed. “Very well.”

Assistant Cleavely scurried off and returned with a heavy tin of sweets. Ms. Yadav tucked it away in her bag and walked out once more.

            She visited day after day, requesting different types of time. Finally, on the fifth day, I could take it no longer. As she left, I rose from my seat.

“Cleavely, man the reception desk for me, please.”

I slipped on my thick woollen coat and followed Ms. Yadav into the sharp sunny day. Obscured by top hats, large skirts and the noise of wheels clattering on cobblestones, I followed her through tree-lined Mayfair, then through Covent Garden, over Waterloo Bridge and down into the winding streets of Kennington.

Eventually, her diminutive figure ducked into the wooden doorway of St. Mark’s Church. I followed her inside, sticking to the shadows in the back.

The little church was empty, except for Ms. Yadav who was quietly greeting a gangly pre-teen girl in the pews. I recognized the girl – Attie, a local orphan who was rapidly losing her sight. She lived under the protection of the priests. Why was Ms. Yadav meeting her?

I watched as she rifled in her bag and pulled out a box of biological time, handing it to Attie.

Aha.

“Ms. Yadav!” I said, stepping forward from the shadows.

“Oh,” said Ms. Yadav, disappointment thick in her voice. She turned to the child. “Attie, this is Miss Henfield, from the Library.”

Attie was all grease and frown, not quite grown into her strong nose, yet. She pursed her lips.

“It’s forbidden to share or exchange the Library's time,” I said.

“Well, luckily I'm doing no such thing.” Liar. Ms. Yadav squinted at me through those thick spectacles.

Were they different from the ones she’d worn before? These were even thicker and had a green frame. Her eyesight had gotten worse. Meanwhile, Attie’s blue eyes seemed… focused on me.

It hit me all at once.

“Ms. Yadav you’re giving time to Attie, for her eyes.”

“That’s absurd,” said Ms. Yadav, but her gaze darted to Attie. I knew a lie when I saw one. Attie’s face had transformed – no more sullen frown. Just wide-eyed panic.

“You're taking Ms. Yadav’s time, aren't you Attie?” I asked.

Attie looked down at the tiled floor. “Yes,” she mumbled, her voice wavering.

Ms. Yadav spoke carefully. “Attie has a degenerative disease – this is turning back the clock, giving her her sight back, for a while.”

“But … Ms. Yadav, you are recorded as borrowing the time. When it’s used, by whomever, the Library takes it back from you. Your eyes are ageing, not Attie’s.”

“I am aware.”

“This can’t last forever. You’ll run out of time.”

“But by then, she’ll be skilled. Prepared.”

“I’m learning self-defence,” said Attie. “I’m also practising weaving.”

“She’s an excellent weaver,” said Ms. Yadav, softly. “So creative. The designs she comes up with!”

I couldn’t let their fantasy go on. It was cruel. “I must report this situation. You’ll be banned from borrowing time and Attie's eyes will revert,” I said.

“Miss Henfield,” said Ms. Yadav. “Attie wishes only to walk through the world safely. To work, to create. Would you deny her that?”

"I... well." Certainly, London was a tough place for a woman on the best of days. A place where dreams were rarely won. I looked at Ms. Yadav. The woman was doing what nobody would ever do willingly, giving her time away. Was it so much to ask me to keep quiet? Attie shoved her hands into her skirt pockets and looked at the floor. I groaned. “Fine. I’ll imagine I never came here. As I wish I hadn’t.”

Attie’s frown straightened somewhat. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Attie smiled, murmuring her thanks.

I sniffed. “Good luck.”

I walked back outside into the bright day, furious with Ms. Yadav for putting me in this position. I waited outside until she emerged. When she did, she took the church steps slowly, grimacing.

“That was kind of you,” she said, spotting me.

“Have you given away all the time you’ve borrowed?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re carving years off your lifespan, your body, your mind. It’s suicide.”

“It’s euthanasia. An escape.”

“Same thing.”

She shrugged again.

“You’re insane,” I said. “Why?”

“Maybe I lost my husband and children in a great fire last year. Perhaps I betrayed my brother, then watched him ruin his own life. Or I suffered some great violence, from which I will never recover.”

“... is that true?”

“I didn’t decide to come to this world. I certainly didn’t decide my experiences. But I can decide when to take myself out. I’d simply like to ensure my time helps a few people before I go.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I shook my head and walked home.

###

“One kilogram of time, please.”

“Oh no, Ms. Yadav, no. I won’t be complicit in it. Just stop, now.”

“What if we do an easy one? Circadian time. That’ll hardly kill me.”

“I suppose your postman wants a nap?”

“Wouldn’t that be delightful for him?”

I groaned. Impossible woman.

“One kilogram of circadian time please.” She leaned forward and whispered, “If you stop, people won’t get the help they need.”

I remembered Attie – her transformation from miserable to smiling. I suppose when you’ve broken a rule once, it’s easier to do it again.

I filled out her form.

Cleavely appeared from the shelves and handed over the midnight elixir of circadian time. I checked my watch. Lunch time.

“You know what, Ms. Yadav? I’ll come with you. If you’re going to make me a co-conspirator, I deserve to see it first-hand.”

Her sparse eyebrows shot up in surprise. She considered me. “Very well, then.”

We walked out into the crisp day and Ms. Yadav led me through London.

Our first stop was down a narrow alleyway, to visit an inventor. Her crooked little house was filled with gadgets. Brass planets hung from strings that spun, each to their own rotation, lit by a glowing sun. Tiny zeppelins flew us tea and biscuits on a plate. The woman was only thirty, but she had dementia, forgetting more every day. Ms. Yadav rummaged in her bag and handed over tins of remembered time-- enough for her to plan and prepare.

Next, we went to a cottage and visited a playwright who hadn’t written a word in months. After his brother died, he couldn’t sleep, but all his great ideas came to him in his dreams. Ms. Yadav gave him the circadian time and some dream time, too. His eyes filled with tears as he shook her hand.

We passed weeks like this. We went to the bedsides of the sick, the old and the young. Ms. Yadav handed out biological and chronological time like it was nothing, like it didn’t carve years off her own life. She was followed by waves of “thank you”s and “you don’t know what this means,” and “you’ve changed my life”s.

And every time she came to the Library, she hobbled a little more. She remembered less. Her hair was whiter. The grooves of her skin deeper. I joined her on every lunch break I could.

One day, in late spring, a frail skeleton of a woman dragged herself into the Library. She must have had days left at most. My eyes stung at the sight of my friend in this state, as people all over London used up her time.

“Four milligrams of time please”

“Category?” My voice was thick.

“The right time.”

I nodded at Cleavely to get it. He stared at Ms. Yadav, not moving.

“Cleavely.” With a start, he grabbed the paper and hurried into the shelves, soon returning with a small jar of electric green powder. Ms. Yadav held it to the light, peering inside. In there was one lucky day. A time when everything simply went right. She leaned over the counter and handed it to me.

“A thank you gift – your company has been a great comfort, before my final escape.”

“Ms. Yadav…” I couldn’t finish my sentence. The tears fell thick and heavy as I got up from my seat and hugged her, her bones light and frail under my touch. I tucked the time into my pocket.

But I didn’t take the green powder that day, or the day after. I had some more moments yet that I wanted to spend helping my friend, Ms Yadav. Finally, I saw time for what it truly was – a beautiful thing, when given to others.