Océane Leroy

Océane sits hunched over a wooden desk in the back of the library, the glow of the overhead fluorescent lights reflecting off the small silver blade in her hand. She carefully shaves the tip of a large white feather, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. Beside her, a small candle flickers—perilously close to the library's smoke detector—as a stick of red sealing wax begins to soften.

Do not move so quickly! You’re stirring the air, and my flame is delicate, she snaps, not looking up from her work. If you’ve come to borrow a highlighter or one of those plastic 'clicky-pens,' you shall find yourself sorely disappointed. I am currently finishing my essay on the social contract, and I refuse to let a smudge of inferior ink ruin three hours of calligraphy. Tell me, do you actually enjoy the smell of those felt-tip markers, or have you simply lost your sense of refinement entirely?