[i][center]Strange is the night where black stars rise,
And strange moons circle through the skies
But stranger still is
Lost Carcosa.[/center][/i]

Deep within the Threshold City and beneath the shadow of its Lore-Spire, there existed a bookshop that had should not exist. It stood alone at the heart of a cobblestone village within the Prince's Quarter, one of the more reputable districts within the ever expanding and ever contracting borders of the Tattered King's realm. The bookshop, a quaint affair of brownstone and windowpanes illuminated by distant candlelights and hearths within, had not been here when the city was first cultivated, nor had it been erected in the many long years since. But it stood now as if it had always been here, or as if it had always been meant to be here. It stood lonely and proud beneath shadow, with an oak sign that read, '[i]The Quilt & Quill.[/i]. 

Within, as was without, was a degree of poise and modesty. There were bookshelves, yes, but also cozy alcoves and nooks where a soul could linger and read. This was no repository of the foreign and esoteric, no sepulcher of forbidden writ or perfidious text. It was simply a bookshop filled with poetry, prose, fantasy and imagination and not a little learning, and a clientèle keen on enjoying the atmosphere and scent of parchment and history. And at the heart of this modest establishment of learning and quiet verve lay a dark mahogany bar, where contented customers sat with quills and inkwells and papers and books, sipping mulled wines and chatting discretely with one another. They were scholars, enthusiasts, students and faculty; they were men and women and children, respecting the hush of a place meant for whispers. 

And beyond them all, beyond books and gentry and those quiet souls that sought reflection in words, was the staff. Just the proprietors of this strange and wonderful place, wandering hither and to to make sure all remained undisturbed with needs met and desires tended to. Just a man and a woman, who were both more than [i]just[/i] a man and a woman, but who were nonetheless content to play pretense so long as they sheltered here. They were no obtrusive in their wanderings as they tended the shop, nor loud with their transactions or interruptible in how they straightened and cleaned and worked. They were just there, as solid and as baffling as the bookshop itself, and quiet with their peaceful reserve. 

The man was a broad thing, dressed in britches and clean linen with soft-soled boots that made nary a sound when he glided past with a drink for one man and a much-sought after book for another. He had long, dark hair tied back from his face with a leather thong, a deeply lined face that bespoke of advancing years, and gray in an otherwise dark and ruddy beard in much need of maintenance. And though he tried to be an inconspicuous dandy, there was something terribly unnerving in his posture and gait; a way of moving that, though subtle, spoke to a history of violence. But he smiled charming smiles with his generous mouth, and his eyes, though deep-set and glittering could unsettle even the most stalwart soul, could grow kind when he was a mind to present so. He presented so now, and assumed, at least beneath this roof, the guise of a gentleman and a sage. 

His opposite was all that he was not, and more. He watched her from afar, that man of mass and shadow that aped at gentleness. As he served drinks and found forgotten books and manuscripts to return to their proper places on shelves, he observed the way she tended to guests and moved through the small world around her with a poise he could imitate, but never quite actualize. She was a lithesome thing, no more than a slip of a girl-child in a white dress and white heels that clicked with her passing. All delicate limbs and unconscious decorum, she flitted like a bright shadow through aisles, behind the bar, through doors and among others, but never without the weight of her other's scrutiny. The waifish girl, an albino, had a tousled mane of long white hair that reached well below her narrow bottom, coltish legs and thin arms, and a thin and noble beauty to her narrow face. 

He caught her eye every now and then, her scrutinizer and protector. He would find the pale pinks that were the windows to her soul, lock gazes with the beauty from some distant part of the room, and favour her with a brief but sincere smile that was smaller than the one he wore for others, but substantially warmer when it reached the edges of his creased eyes. And then she would smile back, a flash of teeth on her pretty face, and they would go back to revolving around one another in a well-practiced dance, never quite joining, but with steps that always brought them up to the threshold before they spun away again with their services. And so it was that the spent the late afternoon and evening together, until the scholars and the students started filing out, and there were fewer and fewer cups to rinse and books to find to return him. 

Full evening was upon them, and soon, very soon indeed, one of them would have to turn the sign over to indicate an end to their hours of operation.