And everywhere books. Along every wall, stacked in every crevasse—some moldering and old, others still glossy and never-read—on shelves above deck and below, in massive piles by Marrow’s totem head engine and in every cabinet and cupboard, their titles and subjects as varied as their origins. Marrow’s Aerial held perhaps the single most extensive collection of books in all of Meridian, more so than even the famed Library of Halencia had kept in its day, far more titles than any person could hope to read in a single sapien lifetime. How many could even Marrow, in his immortality, have read? A lover of books could easily become lost among the multitudes, stumbling about, unsure of where to start, until finally collapsing, exhausted, lifting a tome at random, to begin a futile journey, an exploration doomed from the start. Doomed as every book on the ship was doomed, several titles fed daily into the maw of the totem head, fed to the furnace, burned in the engine that powered the ship and its countless machinations, and perhaps Marrow himself.