Sunday, March 7th, 1891 — Tomes and Scrolls, London

Buying books was a luxury that Ford rarely afforded himself, since his father's death (though not one that gave his youngest sister even a moment's pause, apparently). He utilized the library whenever he could, and he re-read some of the same books he'd had at home for the past two years. A lot of what he read was poetry, and it lent itself well to that — there were layers to it, and every time he came back to read it again he could find something new, unlike a cheap novella or a penny dreadful. When Lestrange had recommended a collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories, Ford had been looking forward to finding a copy, but Crowdy Library had disappointed him. They didn't keep large supplies of Muggle literature, and the librarian he'd spoken to said they had one copy that had been deemed lost (after having not been returned for the past two years) and one that was checked out and wouldn't be due back until April. It wasn't like this was urgent, so he could wait until April, but he would have preferred to have been able to read at least one or two of the stories before Lestrange came for dinner later that month.

He wasn't going to buy a copy, but maybe if he found it in a bookstore he could peruse it casually like he was going to buy it, and get through one or two of the stories. He wouldn't risk it in one of the popular bookstores, because he might run into someone he knew and it might be too obvious that he was just hanging around in a bookstore reading a book rather than paying for it, but maybe one of the ones that was more off of the beaten path, somewhere in London?

Ford hadn't been to Tomes and Scrolls before, but it had sounded promising... until he walked in and realized how small it was. Even if they had a copy, there was no way he could hunker down with it and read a whole chapter without attracting the attention of the person running the shop. Whose attention he seemed to have attracted already, actually, just by virtue of existing inside the store. He was coming out and greeting him, so it was probably too late to back out now. What was he going to do? He couldn't just buy an expensive book to save himself the embarrassment of having to make a lame excuse.

Elmer Macmillan

  

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Set by Lady!

Perhaps it was because his parents still supported him financially that Elmer wasn't an agressive salesman. That, and being a good salesman demanded good social skills which he lacked. He was the kind of person to be pleasant to be around only with like minded people and insufferable to everyone else. Thankfully, the people who frequented his shop had Elmer's sort of vibe, so they got on well.

The young man who had walked into his shop wasn't a frequent customer. Elmer vaguely recognized his face but couldn't put a name to it.

"Welcome," he said somewhat solemnly, making a wide armed gesture for the sole purpose of showing off his shirt's sleeves, which reminisced something a Renaissance person might have worn. (Or at least that was the intended vibe.)

"How can I help you?"

  

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Ford eyed the man who'd greeted him and tried to determine how much he could get away with saying. He wasn't a rude person by nature — quite the opposite, being polite almost to a fault on occasion — but the most expeditious way through this situation was definitely to just make a curt excuse and leave. He could have lied about what he was after, on the other hand, and then left when they didn't have it (or it could backfire and he could be stuck trying to come up with an excuse to avoid buying something he didn't even want in the first place), but if he went making weird obscure requests and this was someone whose opinion he ought to care about, it might come back to haunt him later. Telling the truth, on the other hand, might be fine if they didn't actually have a copy of the book he was looking for. If they did, he'd either have to buy it or think up something fast about why he couldn't.

The man who'd greeted him looked vaguely familiar, but also vaguely like a pirate. This did nothing to help him determine whether or not he was someone whose opinion on Ford's taste in books might matter.

"Well, uhm," Ford began, still unsure whether or not he intended to lie but having decided at least not to just say something rude and leave, since the man looked familiar. "I'm looking for something that's a little obscure. I'm not sure you'll have it."

  

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Set by Lady!

Elmer's shop was full of obscure objects. "What is it?" He asked, trying to take a guess on what it might be. By the way the man had spoken, it sounded as something vaguely shameful. Perhaps he was looking for a vintage phallic toy? Elmer had a selection of those, for those customers who seeked those kind of things.

"I don't suppose you want a wig with unicorn hair," Elmer asked. This used to be a trend sometime in the early 1700s by heartless wizards and one of them had found its way into his shop.

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"Wha — no," Ford said in response to the question. Was that a joke he didn't get, or did this shop... actually have a wig made out of unicorn hair? That definitely met the criteria of obscure, but it couldn't have been farther from what he was actually looking for.

"I thought this was a bookstore," he said, wondering if he'd gotten it wrong. There were plenty of books around, but actually now that he was in the shop he was seeing plenty of other things, too. Maybe he could get out of this after all, if the selection of books they carried wasn't large enough to include short story collections by Muggles.

  

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Set by Lady!

"That's what it started like, when I bought it from the previous owner," Elmer replied. It had been a rather boring book and stationery shop, which was probably the reason the old owner decided to sell it. Or the property, that is. "I liked the name, you see."

He'd started by selling a very niche selection of books, catering to those craving the melancholic and the macabre. Then, he started dealing with old books, rare editions of texts and finally it snowballed to him selling anything old and interesting.

"So you're looking for a book," Elmer concluded. "Something religious? Philosophical? I also have some diaries. They're really entertaining reads, you know."

  

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"You just — have people's diaries?" Ford asked, entirely distracted by this from his original purpose in the shop. It had never occurred to him that anyone would do anything with a diary, unless they were the one writing it. All the more reason not to keep one, he supposed — he certainly wouldn't have wanted all of his private musings being poured over by a stranger after he was dead (or maybe he wouldn't mind — he'd be dead, after all, so maybe it was vaguely flattering to think someone would even be interested in his secrets at that point).

"Like famous people? Or just ordinary people?" he continued, still hung up on this idea. "Where do you get them? Do people's relatives sell their diaries when they die?" Ford had only had to deal with one close family death, personally, and his father hadn't kept a diary. Maybe if he had, it would have been a little easier to follow how the hell he thought he was going to get their family out of this financial mess, but as it was Ford had been left to stitch things together the best he could from a collection of papers and documents and vague things his father had said to Mama at one point or another.

  

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Set by Lady!

"Yeah," Elmer replied as if it was obvious and quite simple. He didn't have a ton of them in his shop, but there was a handful. Some relatives did sell their dead relatives' diaries. In another instance, a man had sold him a selection of old books and his sister's diary had found its way to them, accidentally.

"No famous people, no. Well - I have the diary of a potioneer and aspiring alchemist who blew himself up. He left only a handful of body parts to his wife and lots of debts. It's sad, but these stories make the best customers." The woman was in need of money and she had sold a few of the departed's objects. She'd tried to argue that her husband's diaries could contribute to science. Elmer did have more scholarly interests when he wasn't pursuing art and people he shouldn't go to bed with. In any case, it had been more entraining to read about the man's affairs than his experiments.

Elmer walked up to the shelf he kept it and pulled it out, then walked up to the young man and handed him to worn notebook. "You can take a look, if you want. I have a bookmark in my favourite part."

  

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Ford was about to ask how he'd blown himself up — a point of particular interest since his brother was a potioneer and Ford was really hoping he didn't manage to follow suit — but it occurred to him that that bit probably wouldn't have made it into the diary, unless someone else had added it as an epilogue. The diarist would have been dead by then, and even if he’d stuck around to tell his story he wouldn't have been able to write it down.

The man said he'd left a lot of debts, though, so of course he wouldn't have stayed around as a ghost, Ford thought a little bitterly. Their father hadn't stayed around to explain what he'd been thinking, or how he'd gotten them into that mess in the first place.

He was distracted from these thoughts by being handed the diary. Without giving it a second thought, he opened the notebook to the bookmarked page and started reading. It was a bit hard to figure out what was going on, with no context, but it was clearly — not the sort of thing Ford read about often. He bit his lip, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Is this meant to be poetry?" he asked. "It's not very good. The rhythm is off."

  

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Set by Lady!

"It's experimental," Elmer commented in a tone that suggested he judged the other man for not understanding art. "But - that's not the point. He wrote it about G. This person he loves, which he doesn't describe thoroughly, but I have reason to believe G was a werewolf." Also, a man, but it seemed that it was less scandalous to mention werewolves than to suggest a dead man who's diary Elmer had enjoyed reading was a homosexual. "He died trying to figure a way how to cure him, you see. He believed he could, by means of alchemy, separate the beastly body from the man. Divorce man from wolf, if you will. And in the process, you would have the cured G, freed from lycanthropy and a wolf."

Elmer thought the whole thing rather romantic and he had greatly enjoyed reading about their struggles. The diary had some great comedic bits, too. It truly was a marvellous read.

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There was certainly a lot in that description that sounded experimental, but Ford wasn't convinced the meter of the words on the page ought to make the list. It wasn't doing anything new or exciting, from his perspective — it was just missing a syllable here and adding another there in a way that felt hapless.

"Have you tried reading this out loud?" he asked, skimming over the page again. "You'd see what I mean. Like this line: I sit and wait and dream of you, and your cocoa hair and eyes of dew." It was a syllable too long, and that was before even touching the content. What did it mean to have eyes of dew?

"Compare that to something like: It was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee." He'd had Poe on the brain since his conversation with Lestrange about it, and he'd re-read some of his poetry earlier that week, which might have been why it came to mind. At any rate, Annabel Lee was an excellent example to illustrate his point; the cadence and the rhyme worked so well together that quoting it always seemed almost musical.

  

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Set by Lady!

Elmer didn't expect for the man to start narrating Annabel Lee, which happened to be one of Elmer's favourite poems. Edgar Allan Poe wasn't widely known in the magical world and enjoyed a cult-like following from people like Elmer and, it appeared, this man.

Elmer's interest had been peeked and he now viewed the man in a different light. He did have a somewhat attractive face, now that Elmer was having a better look at him and he could forgive him not appreciating the experimental poetry of a dead, love-struck alchemist.

"You can't," he agreed. "But poems like Annabel Lee are one of a kind. And similarly like how you couldn't compare something by Bach to the excruciating fiddling by someone writing a song for their beau, you cannot help but appreciate the sentiment that drew them to the desk and to the violin, or the piano. I suppose you've never been in love and that is why you've never embarrassed yourself so." He laughed kindly.

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Ford blushed. He felt this man was probably making fun of him, and hadn't decided yet whether he ought to be put out about it. He hadn't been in love, he didn't think, but neither did he particularly want to be. He couldn't afford to marry anyone, now or possibly ever, so what good would it do to fall in love? It would just give him an excuse to write bad poetry, apparently.

At least he didn't seem to be inclined to berate Ford's taste in poetry. He was pleasantly surprised to hear that the man recognized the lines, and that he described Poe such an... enraptured fashion. Ford didn't know many people who had actually read Poe, though he was famous enough in the Muggle world that most people at least knew the name. But this gentleman hadn't just latched on to a familiar name; he'd actually recognized the lines.

"If I tried to write poetry I might embarrass myself anyway," he admitted with a shrug. "Without even having to have fallen in love first."

  

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Set by Lady!

"Poe probably thought the same of his lines," Elmer commented. "Or at least he seems to have been the sort to be plagued by insecurity. And so, being young and deeped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy. But I suppose no literary genius can come from bubbly Quidditch players."

He laughed, mostly to himself, because his words brought Raf to mind, who might have said something unkind if he had been there to hear him.

"Are you not a creator, then?"

  

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"Of poetry?" Ford asked, surprised by the question. He'd never even considered trying to write poetry, despite how much he enjoyed reading it. It wasn't the sort of skill young men were taught to cultivate, and during the most melancholic part of his life immediately after the death of his father, he'd had much more pressing things to devote his time and energy to. "No, just a fan. I don't write."

His comment about bubbly Quidditch players had stuck in Ford's mind. All through school he'd had one particular idea about what Quidditch players were like, a sort of archetype. Dorian Fisk seemed to fit the archetype, from what Ford knew of him — Lestrange, on the other hand, was an actual Quidditch player and did not.

"Do you think there's something about playing Quidditch itself that makes one incapable of writing like Poe?" he asked with interest. "Or did you mean that you think playing Quidditch makes people generally happy, and only people who are typically unhappy can write good poetry?"

  

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Set by Lady!

"The second, I suppose. People who are terribly developed in one particular skillset tend to be less so at others." Quidditch demanded a lot of hard work and devotion and so did literary genius, so it was hard to be good at both.

"But I suppose happy people can write poetry as well - just not the kind I would enjoy reading."

  

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