Jane paused before the doors.
They were grand and old, worn smooth by a century of wind and rain. Large, solid columns framed them, towering like tree trunks over entering scholars. Elaborately carved stone engravings embellished the facade. Scroll-carrying angels glided high above, and armoured soldiers stood beside the doors, eyes dark and scrutinizing. Carved vines and flowers wreathed the stonework, and high above three words were chiselled with as much strength and precision as if God himself had hewn them.
“Scientiam, Veritatis, Honorem,”
Jane read aloud. Latin. She knew not what the words meant, but even with her poor pronunciation she felt their power.
With a shrug Jane stepped inside. She tried not to notice the accusing eyes of the stone guards as she passed, forcing her thoughts to the task ahead.
She pushed through another door, and was inside.
The inside of the library did not reflect the outside. The air was hot. Dim fluorescent lights lit a large, flat room filled with bookstacks. Laminate tables and high-quality plastic office chairs dotted the empty spaces in between bookshelves, and a few students studied in the corners, earbuds dangling from the sides of their heads. Posters containing literary quotes lined a plain, white wall. It was as, if not less, impressive than some of the local libraries Jane had started with in Chicago.
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