Clara slid the skeleton key into the lock and turned it, sealing herself into her sanctuary of secrets. Lightning struck as she turned her back to the doors, thunderous roars echoing her steps back to her desk. The library was closed for this stormy night, but this librarian still had work to do.
Sliding open her desk drawer, she spotted an envelope addressed to a name almost as native to her as her own:
Lady Luck.
From the drawer, she pulled out her letter opener, the cool, heavy metal powerful in her hands. Dipping its pointed edge under the fold of the envelope, she relished the slow slice, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
Even after opening hundreds of letters, the moment before reading a stranger’s plea for her prized perspective made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
"Lady Luck,
With all her luck and foresight, I wonder- has Lady Luck ever shelved the book that tells her own tale?
You’ve hidden well, Lady Luck. But stories don’t stay shelved forever."
Clara dropped the letter with shaky hands and stood up, her hand knocking the letter opener to the floor. The clang of metal against the brass handles rang out like a warning bell, freezing her breath mid-throat.
Warily scanning around her, Clara suddenly felt watched. Her eyes darted to the shelf by the reference books, she forced them away.
With each reading of the letter, resentment stacked inside her like bricks. Lady Luck had given fortunes to strangers on every continent.
This? This wasn’t one of hers.
This wouldn’t be her ending. Clara wouldn’t let it.
Pacing to the referencing section, her mind was set on one thing: destruction. She immediately unshelved the intentionally mishelved book,
Found Not Guilty: Innocence or Luck?
Book in hand, she walked to the library’s entrance, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. She took the skeleton key from her pocket and unlocked the doors, revealing a torrential rainstorm.
For a moment, Clara wanted to step into it — feel the wind, the sting of heavy water droplets against her skin.
Before throwing the book to the rain like raw steak to a hungry wolf, she flipped to its thirteenth chapter.
Klara Livingston: Black Widow.
She felt nothing at the sight of her old name.
As she went to close it, her thumb felt a bumpy texture.
She opened it again. Her eyes traced to the bottom of the first page of Chapter Thirteen — a message, freshly inked in familiar handwriting:
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Lady Luck.”
She
slammed the book shut.
