the smuggler’s bible


They spend a day in the city, tramping down alleys to old bookshops with proprietors who stare venomously at Meliora when she can’t stop sneezing from all the dust.

Each establishment is dusty and mysterious and the catalogs all suitably recherché. All of them also have been recently picked clean of any Muntzplattner (both folio and vellum) and the more esoteric works of Poppogarde, though copies of the latter’s (useless) Aequationes Disci Inferni abound.

“Isn’t there anything else you’d like for your birthday?”

“I believe,” Meliora says, bleary-eyed with hay fever, “that I have been very clear on this point.”