The inside of the giant, hollowed-out tree felt bigger than it really was, mostly because of the high ceiling. The walls followed the circumference of the trunk, creating a natural flow to the main room, until reaching thirty feet above, where the architect had decided that would be the ceiling of the ground floor. The walls were thick enough to protect from the elements outside, strong enough to support the weight of the canopy above, and substantial enough for the tree to still somehow live while hollowed out.
Only a select number of round holes were chosen to breach this outer layer, fitted with glass panes. One window sat at each cardinal direction except for the south, where interior walls had been left during the carving process to create a small kitchen. Some pieces of the furniture, such as the counter, were left as part of the tree.
Sunlight shone through the eastern window, casting a lazy glow across the bookshelves and illuminating the dust that hovered in the air. This golden oak tree was a library, and sitting at the desk opposite to the main entrance was its librarian.
He was tipped back in a wooden chair and reading a hardcover book, back hooves propped up on the desk. This main room of the library was empty besides him, and no one had come in for the first hour of being open. Then, the clock struck the first minute of the second hour.
The door opened, tapping the brass bell hanging from the door frame. He drew up from his book, unsurprised but still not expecting the company. Like a shark, the tips of a blue mane swam through the aisles of books, coming to a wall and following its curve, browsing the shelves that had been carved into the walls themselves. The pony stopped, still hidden from view other than the tips of their mane poking out. Then, they disappeared.
The unicorn at the desk furrowed his eyebrows and sat forward in the chair, the front legs snapping to the ground. With a small puff, he stood up, setting the book down with the magic from his horn. The pony had disappeared from view, but as he neared the spot, he expected to see them crouched down, looking at the selection of books on the shelf.
Although when he rounded the corner, the aisle was empty.
He glanced around, a sense of unfamiliarity gripping him, as if this weren't actually his library. He continued down to the edge of the shelf, peeked around the corner, and saw still more empty floor.
He stood still, thinking, Perhaps I can hear them. No noise came at first until a soft creak sounded from the bottom of the staircase that led to the second floor. He moved, clearing half the room in three seconds.
"Excuse me," he said, although he still was unable to see the pony, "you're not allowed up there." The last thing he needed was some punk wandering up into his personal living quarters thinking it was where the bargain books were kept; it wouldn't have been a first.
"What?"
From behind him, one row over, came the voice. His hoof caught a divot left over from the initial hollowing out of the tree, and he staggered into one of the solid shelves, bracing himself to keep upright. It wasn't until he regained balance that he saw a pair of luminous, magenta eyes peering over one of the shelves at him, separated by the bridge of a white snout and outlined by an explosion of light-blue-and-cobalt hair. They disappeared behind the shelf, followed by the hollow clop of hooves against the wooden floor.
"You okay?" the voice asked, and although he now stared at the ground, his equilibrium still sloshing in his head, he thought he heard the hint of a snigger.
"Yeah, I'm fine, all good." He had finished speaking before he looked up and was left speechless when he did.
She stood shorter than him—she being of average height and he being taller than average. Vibrant, almost violent, pops of color from her eyes and mane stood out against her blank, off-white coat, like an action scene drawn in the margins of a high school notebook. And how was it possible for somepony to simultaneously feature both an angled and soft outline? For lack of any possible better-fitting word, she was striking in every sense.
"Were you saying something?"
He blinked. "Pardon?"
"You said something before . . . whatever that was."
"I, ahem—"
"You don't remember what you were saying."
The two paused, and he glared at her with parted lips, his eyebrows knitting sweaters of confusion.
"I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
It was true that she resembled somepony—perhaps a distant relative or a patron he had passed in the market—although he was sure this was more a trick of his mind than anything. But for somepony to come into his place of business and treat him in such a manner, surely they knew each other in some form.
She smirked. "I'm here to get a book for my friend. She plays the cello—it's like a big violi—"
"Yes, I am aware of what a cello is, thank you."
"She's got, like, every sheet music book there is for the thing, and I wanna get her something for her birthday—something special."
Despite her annoying and rude attitude, he cocked up a brow.
"Something special, hmm?" His eyes glanced around the open area, bouncing from one section to another. This continued until his lids narrowed and his gaze settled on a door behind the counter. Perhaps, he thought, in finding a book that would not only fit the bill but infinitely surpass it, I can stick it to this pain in my ass. He nodded and brushed past her. "This way."
The two wove between shelves, their hoofsteps filling and reverberating within the empty aural space. They neared the counter, and he levitated the keys he carried on him to the lock.
"Oh, I already know where this is going," she said, although she showed no signs of hesitation.
"For crying out . . ." he muttered, then said, "This is where I keep my rare items. Surely you can understand wanting to keep valuables protected."
"Of course, but in the most rape-y place you can find?"
He opened the door and then faced her with a tired expression. "Do you want the book or not?"
She smiled, and the two walked through the door and down the stairs. Lamps of magic fire flared to life, igniting from a spark at the end of his horn. The air upstairs, although plagued with dust, was pleasant and round on the nose with the scent of aged wood. But the basement, with its aisles weaving between the roots of the tree, stank of a mustiness that clung to and infused itself within every available surface. What wasn't held in place by the roots was seemingly stitched together with cobwebs.
"Damn, how often do you come down here? I can hardly breathe."
"And here I was hoping you'd talk less because of it."
A pause.
"That was pretty good; I'll give you that one."
A smirk slipped across his lips while his back kept his face hidden from her view.
"But don't let it go to your head," she said.
The smile disappeared.
While he was perfectly comfortable in the silence that clung to the cobwebs as much as the damp odor, he cursed his mind for slipping into a state of automatic retail mode: "So what do you do?"
"Excuse me?"
An uncommon response to say the least, he thought. Despite being a perfect excuse to quit the conversation he accidentally started, he pressed on: "For a living, for fun, to kill time: what do you do?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Why do I—? It's a simple question. It's hardly intrusive."
"Do you ask everyone you bring down here that?"
"What are you on about? Look, I was just trying to make conversa—"
"Nah, I'm just teasing; I love talking about myself."
Every sinew cried for murder.
"Like my friend, I'm in the music business."
"Let me guess: classical."
"Yeah, sure, smart ass." He didn't look back, but he could hear that smirk on her voice again. "No, I DJ a lot of local joints—everything from raves to 70s disco nights."
"What's your—watch your head." The two ducked under a root as they continued to shimmy along the decrepit shelves. "What's your DJ name?"
"DJ PON-3."
"How original," he said, less enthusiastic than he would have liked to come across.
"Pick all you want; I'm one of the most popular DJs around. And I make bank from it."
He rolled his eyes. "Then how come I've never heard of you before?"
"Probably because you're lame." He stopped and faced her with an incredulous look. "I mean that in the quantifiable sense; it's not just me being mean. Statistically speaking, you'd be less likely to have heard of me."
A moment's pause seeped from the roots and into the air.
"What are you talking about?" Before she could respond, he waved a hoof. "Just . . . never mind. We're here."
Before them sat a bookshelf, nearly identical to the ones lining the room above, but this one, like all the others in the natural basement of the grand oak tree, was stained by water damage and split from roots that had grown too large around it. Its shelves were crowded with books and parchments, all looking antique and dusty. The mare frowned.
"This is it? It looks like shit."
"To the untrained eye, yes," he said. "But look closer. See that glint?"
She leaned in, and just barely visible in the lanterns' glow was a sliver of light reflecting off a nearly invisible sheen that encased the books, revealing itself only as much as a bubble would by candlelight.
"A spell of my own design: I've used it on everything down here to keep it all in mint condition."
"You created this? Your own spell?"
He frowned. "Well, there's no need to sound too surprised."
In the faint light, her teeth could be seen behind a faint grin. "No, it's just . . . that's actually pretty cool."
Silence descended like moss spores and filled the air, stopping either of them from speaking. Instead, they shared a glance and a smile in the near darkness before he looked back to the shelf. The faint film vanished with a pop, and with his magic, he levitated a book from the shelf and floated it toward her.
"The Complete Collection of Beethooven, Arranged for Cello, Edition One. Even if your dull mind fails to see its value"—he grinned as he spoke and watched her with soft eyes—"your friend should find this to be the perfect gift."
She took it from his magical grasp with her own and eyed the cover. He turned from her to recast the protective spell over the remaining books, and the two trekked back out from underneath the tree. Neither one of them spoke until resurfacing in the main room.
Despite the journey only having taken no more than five minutes, the sun had made significant progress across the sky, no longer casting its glow through the eastern window. The two approached the counter.
"So how much is this going to set me back?" she asked.
"Well, considering it's mint condition and first edition, and also factoring in how much of a pain in my ass you've been, it comes to 150 bits."
"Holy shit!"
"What? I thought you said you 'made bank' from your DJing."
"Yeah, but that much for a book?"
"Like I said, this is mint condition and it's a first edition. You will never find another one like this." He leaned over and pointed to minute details of the book. "You can even see the original bindings still haven't come undone, and there's absolutely no wear at all. I honestly can't even believe I'm offering to sell it to you in the first place."
"And why's that? What makes me so special?" He looked up from the book, making eye contact with her. He had forgotten down in the basement how bright her eyes were. She smiled. "How about this? You drop the price a bit—let's say down to one hundred bits—and I'll get you an all-access backstage pass to one of my shows. Then you can finally say you've heard of me."
He hadn't noticed how fast his heart was beating until that moment, when the two of them were less than a foot apart, staring into each other's eyes. He swallowed, and her eyes, despite not breaking their gaze, seemed to rush with electricity.
"Deal."
She fished around in her bit pouch for the coinage, swearing she had it, and finally counted out the exact change. With the bill paid, she grabbed the book and began to walk away. The stallion rushed to load the bits into his register, shouting when she was just at the door.
"Wait!" She paused, hoof on the handle, and stared back at him. He stumbled around the counter and approached her, in awe of how the sunlight glistened around her mane. "I don't even know your name."
She laughed, not malevolently but as if she were told a humorous quip. It warmed him.
"The name's Vinyl. Vinyl Scratch."
"Pen Ultimate," he said, slightly breathless. He reached out with his hoof, and after a short glance at it, she took it, and the two shook.
Before he even registered it as the first physical contact he had with her, she had pulled away, turned out through the door, and disappeared into the glow of sunlight.