The building was old, and mostly red-clay brick, but whoever built it had the bad idea of giving the building a vaguely neoclassical facade: white fluted columns supported a triangular awning over the tops of the steps. The doors were large, a mahogany double-door with recessed panels. Simon shivered when he came to those doors—maybe it was his nervousness at sneaking into town while Gram napped, or maybe it really was colder up here on the shaded portico.

There was a brass plaque on one of the doors. “Waite Library”, it said. “Founded 1814 By Adaliah Waite In Honor Of Her Husband, Cedron Waite.” Someone had vandalized the plaque, scratching HL+SG 24 into the smooth, tarnished metal.

Simon looped the long, striped scarf around his neck and stretched his hand out to the dark brass handle on the door. He wrapped his small, dark hand around it and put his thumb on the latch—