Everywhere she looks there are books and scrolls, parchments and pamphlets, volumes and tomes. Some are normal, everyday books, but some are huge, wider than a bus, taller than a house, smaller than a thumbnail, scrolls like pillars. It's the books that form the fabric of the market, as props or counters or walls between stalls, books piled high to make flights of stairs and giant scrolls as benches. Some books are ancient, bound in leather and gold, some are clasped or locked, while others are open, pages flapping in the breeze. There are even books that are writing themselves, words appearing on oversized pages before her eyes.
“M'lady” says a voice that startles her. “Welcome to the Market of Fictions.”
