"Fuck," Death's chosen should probably pick more inventive invective. "Won't budge."

Fists planted against a bookshelf that's gone the weight of stone. They've been closing in, obstructing doors, flinging their contents into desperate view. Cedric hasn't stopped to look too close, or he would've spied his father's journal; else the secrets to being taken seriously, or that song he heard once and never again, and an illustrated account of everyone he's ever thought about naked –

Different, of course, for Gwen.

"Y'really reading right now?"