Neel takes a sharp breath and I know exactly what it means. It means: I have waited my whole life to walk through a secret passage built into a bookshelf.

Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines -- it's hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits.

The thinnest tendrils of dawn are creeping in from the east. People in New York are softly starting to tweet.

All the secrets of the world worth knowing are hiding in plain site.

Our books still do not require batteries. But I am no fool. It is a slender advantage.

I feel a little whirl of dislocation -- the trademark sensation of the world being more closely knit together than you expected

I sit up straight and do the first thing a person is supposed to do in an emergency, which is send a text message.