Chapter 2: Fatum Iustum Bibliophile

She spotted someone on the opposite side of the busy London thoroughfare. Was it...? She checked through the binoculars.

Yes.

Long brown hair. Thick glasses. Overcoat. Suitcase.

The woman, thoroughly engrossed in a thick hardcover novel, wandered out into traffic. Cars swerved. Drivers hurled imprecations, and, in one case, a beer bottle, at her. She didn't notice.

Yup, thought Mireille. That's her, all right.

"Yomiko Readman." The man slid the file across to her. "Substitute teacher and field agent of the British Library's Division of Special Operations. Code-named 'The Paper,' due to her abilities. Your target."

"A library needs field agents?" she asked.

"They're rather strict when it comes to overdue books."

"Ah."

"She has the telekinetic ability to manipulate paper, paper derivatives, wood pulp (bleached and unbleached), and certain forms of peat moss. Exercise caution." He turned to leave. "Find her, and finish the job. You have seven days."

And I only needed two, she thought.

The woman crossed over to her side of the street, sighing romantically. A flowerpot plummeted from five stories, missed her head by inches, and shattered messily. She didn't notice.

This could be easier than I anticipated, noted Mireille.

She stepped back into the alley's shadows. The woman, in a state of bliss that any other person would need several pounds of narcotics to achieve, floated by, suitcase skipping on the cracks in the walk, giggling to herself. As soon as she passed, Mireille raised her weapon and fired.

"Ah?!" said the woman. A crossbow bolt had shot Chaucer's finest right through the spine.

Mireille yanked on the string.

The woman whimpered as the book flew out of her hands and slid along the walk. "Eh?! Mister Canterbury! Don't leave me! Come back!" She chased after it, on the verge of tears.

Mireille snatched up the book, removed the bolt and line, and then stepped swiftly through a nearby doorway, intentionally leaving it ajar. She swept across the empty, darkened kitchen of the restaurant (closed for the holidays), placed the book in an obvious spot, then concealed herself in the room's darkest corner.

"Book!" The woman burst through the door, sending a rack of ladles clattering to the floor. "Book?" She looked about, breathing heavily.

She stopped. Her face melted.

"Book..." she sighed, as if reunited with a long lost lover (which, technically, she was). "Dear, dear book," she breathed, as she cradled it in her arms.

Then she noticed the gaping hole in it.

Her scream nearly jolted Mireille from her hiding place. "Ohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigod!" squealed the woman. "It's okay, it's okay Yomiko," she hyperventilated, "just a scratch, it can be fixed, just a nick, nothing more, just a book, no, no, not just a book, it's Chaucer, it's the 1648 edition of Canterbury Tales damn it, and it's got a great big bloody hole in it and now someone's gonna pay for this sacrilege!"

She stood there, one outraged fist raised against the world, trembling with fury. Mireille tried to remember why'd she agreed to do this.

"No, stay calm, stay calm," panted the woman. "Stay calm, Yomiko. 'Fear leads to hate, hate leads to anger,' and all that. Focus on priorities. Focus." She took a deep breath, exhaled, and then nuzzled the book to her face. "Don't worry, my precious, Mommy's here. She'll make things all better, just you wait." She sobbed. "Don't die! Please don't die!" She turned and shuffled towards the door.

Mireille rolled her eyes, aimed, and fired.

Tink.

She blinked.

The bullet, perfectly aimed, spun to a smoking halt in the middle of a 3' by 4' index card with the strength of steel, held by a woman who had went from distraught, delusional bibliophile to ice cold, focused book ninja in 0.1 nanoseconds.

Uh oh, she thought. No, don't hesitate; shoot!

Six more shots. All met the same end, the paper (and The Paper) moving at speeds fantastic. Don't panic, thought the assassin, reloading. Just a coincidence, that's all.

There was the sound of a hundred blackjack dealers shuffling. Three-hundred-fifty-seven index cards rushed in a wave from the woman's billowing coat, hovered in mid-air, and folded themselves into origami darts, knives, throwing stars, and, in a few cases, really pointy paper cranes, the air rustling with the snick and snap of dangerous folds. In one hand, the woman held the book. In the other, a great two-handed samurai sword, its manila-tag blade rippling with hatred. She rose from the ground, slowly, an avenging Fury from the depths of hell.

Aw crud, thought Mireille.

"You." The voice was malice. "You did this. You did this. To. My. Precious." She stepped forward, the projectiles circling like sharks, their rustling the chitter of a million rats.

"St-stay back!" said Mireille, in a voice unbefitting of her profession. She raised the gun in both hands. It was shaking.

A rush. A clang. A clatter.

She carefully dropped the remaining half of her gun as the great sword swung back around, coming to rest in the region of her neck.

"You," hissed the woman, glasses flashing. "You. Touched. My. BOOK!" The tip of the sword grew, forcing Mireille onto her tip-toes. The swarm of origami death settled into attack formation. "That really, really aggravates me. My therapist said I should lighten up. Get out more often. Maybe find a new hobby. You know what?" The furious Valkyrie leaned closer. "Now she can't walk by a Barnes and Noble without screaming." She giggled, girlishly. Mireille would have fainted right there, had this not involved the loss of her head. "And now," said the woman, her voice trembling with passion, "now you're going to get a crash course in Literary Appreciation, bitch!"

"Look!" shouted Mireille, pointing. "The Encyclopaedia Britannica!"

"Ah?! Where?!" The woman whirled about, eyes sparkling.

The cast-iron pan connected with the back of her head with a resonant dong.

"Ooooh, Nancy-san," slurred the woman, "we shouldn't..." She toppled forward. The swarm of death morphed into a cloud of little tweety-birds, circled her head, and then plopped to the ground, lifeless.

Mireille put down the now-dented pan, and remembered to breathe.

A man stepped forth from the shadows, clapping slowly.

"Well done, well done," he said. "A bit crude in execution, but effective. Pretty good, for your first time."

"Thanks, Uncle Claude," she replied, smiling weakly.

"If this were a normal contract," he continued, examining the body, "you could now dispose of her at your leisure. As this isn't..." He reached inside the woman's coat, and pulled out a thick book.

"All this," said Mireille, "over an overdue book?"

"The British," he replied, "take overdue fees very seriously." He pocketed it, and then put a friendly hand on her trembling shoulder. "It's all right. You did well. In fact, I think you might just be ready to turn pro."

"Really?" she said, hopefully.

"Just one thing, though." He picked up the pieces of the gun. It was a clean cut. "Walther PPK? Even Bond knew when to drop it, Mireille. You need better. Much better."

"I have had my eye on one of those P99s," she noted.

"Good thinking. Shall we?" He gestured towards the door.

"Uncle Claude?"

"Mm?"

"I think she got a good look at me. Is it all right? To leave her alive, I mean?"

"Daisy, daisy, toothbrush me your give toomushumuhnumshumuhmbll," said the recently-concussed one.

"Ordinarily, no. But I think this is a special case."

"Oh."

"Now come on." He stepped into the alley. "There's a sale at Macy's, and I refuse to miss it."

"Uncle Claude?"

"Yes?" he said, in mock exasperation.

"Why are you wearing a dress?"

The dreaming way is eased

down to the crushing centre

and spared the dance of forever