JP Violet

The Tower

You blink away the glare of soft sunlight. Gentle rays stream through the stained-glass windows that rim the vaulted dome far above your head. You look around and find that you are alone, standing in a spacious, circular chamber of wood and stone. Dense beams rise from the smooth planks of the floor and up the sloped ceiling, like wooden bones beneath muscles of polished brick. While there are several large oil paintings adorning the room, the majority of the wall space is dominated by ornate bookshelves whose packed rows stretch taller than triple your height. In the center of the room, a circular balustrade encloses a hole in the floor through which a spiral staircase leads to some lower level. You notice more rows of books lining the wall alongside the steps as they descend from view.

Finally, you notice a singular alcove that disrupts the otherwise perfect geometry of the chamber. Two steps higher than the rest of the floor, the carpeted dais within the alcove bears a single, heavy desk made of wood so dark it seems carved from coal. On its tidy surface, you spot a stack of fresh pages of parchment, a collection of capped inkwells of various colors, a fine fountain pen, and a lone candlestick whose flame flickers despite the plentiful light from the windows. A grand chair sits behind the desk, beckoning you forward. 

You move to step towards the desk and the comfortable chair, but you hesitate. You found yourself in a library, of all places. You figure that, if you’re going to take a seat, you may as well have a book to flip through. You scan the shelves that surround you, peeking again at the staircase that presumably leads to even more. Of the books you see, none look identical to any other. Countless works by countless authors. And you, with the freedom to choose…

Where to begin?