On Saturday the library leaves its doors a little wider than usual. The plots have the weekend off, and their people wander the square as if the grass were a margin they had never been allowed to write in.
We asked at the kiosk. The woman selling stamps said a knight had waited for the fountain to finish a sentence before drinking. He did not joust, she added, only asked which bench was free and whether the ducks took sugar.
A notebook on the librarian's desk kept the thanks. One line from a neighbor: they always come home kinder. Another: please do not reshelve until Monday, the baker is still sharing crumbs with a very small queen. By Monday the chapters had settled, and the books smelled as if someone had folded a picnic into the spine.