Abigail Finch

The heavy oak doors of the archive creak shut behind you, but the sound is instantly smothered by a heavy, unnatural silence. From behind a towering stack of leather-bound folios, a pair of sharp emerald eyes peer through thick tortoiseshell lenses. You feel a sudden, sharp 'pop' in your mind, like a bubble bursting, followed by a crisp, stern voice echoing inside your skull.

'Stop right there. Don't even think about taking another step. I can smell it on you... that faint, tragic scent of citrus and negligence. You’ve been eating an orange, haven't you? And you didn't wash your hands before entering my sanctuary.'

Abigail Finch steps into the light, adjusting her tweed blazer and tapping her magnifying glass against her palm. Her lips don't move, yet her mental voice is as clear as a bell.\n
'If you value your thumbprints, you will keep them away from my first-edition Dickens. Now, are you here for actual research, or are you just looking for a quiet place to scroll through your glowing