I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury.
Dom and Fran are adorbs.
Places in Books
The Secret Book Market
It does take a while.
Hours and hours of walking and searching and investigating and turning-arounding.
Through artistically graffiti-ed alleyways and down cobblestoned paths.
Wrong turns and confused directions and smilingly mischievous locals.
They had to stop for a stroopwafel along their search to "fortify their strength" and "restrategize their efforts".
"Thank you, Dom. All this searching was making me hungry."
Well, they didn't have to.
"Sure. Anything for you, Fran."
But it certainly . . .
Oh.
. . . helped.
They probably passed possible routes to it more than once.
And then . . .
"Dom, what did you say the clue was?"
"We need to find the 'Old Man's House Passage'. And it's supposed to be in the oldest part of the city."
And she stands in the early afternoon day, sunshine warming her back and shoulders.
Brow furrowed, head tilted, nose scrunched in concentration.
"Dom?"
"Yeah?"
And he's at her side, she can feel him standing close, half a head taller than her.
"What is it?"
And she can't quite break her concentration long enough to . . .
"Well . . ."
. . . fawn over him for once.
". . . I wear glasses and I'm not old, right?"
A wondering statement.
As she gazes up at the classical European architecture of the building before them.
And Dom, she feels, looks away from her face and up.
"Wha- oh."
Up to triangle of smooth stone.
And the simple engraving of plain round spectacles . . .
"Fran, . . ."
. . . laid therein.
". . . I think you found something.'
And he turns back to her.
"I have?"
Smile breaking across his face, those small, even white teeth, those electric blue eyes lighting up.
"Yeah, I think so."
And he readjusts the sturdy straps of the overlarge backpack that holds nearly all of his worldly possessions.
"You ready?"
And she mirrors the movement in brave anticipation.
"Yes."
And they . . .
"Alright. Let's go."
. . . go.
"You did it, Fran. You found it!"
And as Frances Faye Fugleman gazes in wonder at the secret book market of Oudemanhuispoort, Dominic Marcus Hargan leans in, much as the day she brought them pizza in the loft, . . .
"It's official."
. . . and smacks her a kiss on the cheek.
"You're my good luck charm."
Which Fran does appreciate . . .
Oh-
. . . but barely registers . . .
"Dom, . . ."
. . . amid all the mystical beauty.
Laid out before her.
"Look-"
It's an awed whisper, a murmur.
More of an exhaled surresh than anything else.
Because that's all she's got, that's all she can manage to muster.
Because it is . . .
"Look at it . . ."
. . . so perfectly divine . . .
"Do you see?"
. . . all together.
And Dom's handsome face is alit as well.
"Yeah . . . it's . . . it's unbelievable."
And she staring, just staring.
Eyes open wide, mouth agape as well.
It's just so . . . perfect.
She's been to bookstores, proper libraries, even strolled simple sidewalk vendors from time to time.
But this . . .
They've entered in the middle and so the expanse of it stretches out on either side.
More like a wide covered alleyway or a courtyard between buildings than anything else.
Worn brick walls line either side of the space.
Arched doorways, windows, into alcoves set into the brick.
The floor is also worn brick, smoothed by centuries of shuffling feet.
It should be dark, dingy, full of mice and spiders and gloomy things.
And it is cooler in here, out of the direct eye of the sun.
But it is also filled, filled, with light, bright, beaming sunlight filtering in through windows to the outside set high, high in the three story high walls.
So much light.
And books.
They're everywhere.
An unorganized, random assortment.
No apparent rhyme or reason to any of it.
Yet somehow not frustrating or chaotic at all.
But wondersome and magical.
Alive with softly echoey reverberations.
The shuffling of books, the shuffling of people.
Low, soothing undertones of quiet, rumbling lived life.
People amble among the stacks of books, the shelves of books, crates of books.
Magazines, posters.
Sheet music. Engravings. Historic maps.
And all manner of papered interest.
The air just hints of the best kind of musty old tomes, centuries of settled architecture, and coffee sipped from small paper cups.
Locals mill about here and there, as if this place is no secret at all to those who known how to find it.
Some sit in folding chairs, watching the strolling explorers.
Content to abide alone.
Or converse quietly with one another.
The occasional enchanted tourist.
This is no hustle and bustle of busy, driven capitalism hunger and demand.
Rather, Fran is not sure where she would find the cashier to take her coin if she were to find a book to even purchase.
And at the same time, she is quite certain there is no thievery here.
Not in such a wonderful place as this.
She could happily spend her life in here and never leave.
"This place is over four hundred years old," Dom's murmur just reaching her hearing.
"It's been an almshouse, a cholera hospital, an art academy . . ."
And Fran just listens to him.
". . . even a Rembrandt museum for a while."
And looks at all the books.
"They say DaVinci drew inspiration just from wandering around in here."
And Fran's stunned.
"Da Vinci?" she just manages to squeak out. "The Da Vinci?? As in Leonardo??"
Dom's amused chuckle is warm.
"Yeah. I mean, can you imagine?"
And she cannot, no.
The Da Vinci.
Here.
Right here.
Fran stops. Puts her hand to the red brick wall nearest her.
Pauses in wonder.
And then she remembers she is shy, awkward.
And removes her hand.
Ducks down inside herself.
"Well, probably not right there, I guess."
And Dom's face shows no guile.
"You never know, Fran."
Doesn't seem to be teasing her at all.
"I mean, it's possible."
And then he asks a question . . .
"So . . ."
. . .she just doesn't how to answer . . .
". . . what are you going to get?"
. . . at all.
"Oh, um, well . . ."
Diagon Alley, gentle readers. I mean, it's just gotta be.
Anywho, thanks to Seth A. Mincberg and DinahRay for so kindly reviewing before. I really appreciate that.