to something like this. Literature on appendages? Lymantri wings were fairly dissimilar to anything that his own body possessed, but there was still something unnerving about seeing them up there, some of them making near-full revolutions.

He'd realized already that The Libra was a fairly unconventional bookstore, but this strayed even further than what he imagined he could never expect. Unless the flying appendages of dead beings were standard layout for literature.

Well, he thought, I guess they wouldn't have to be dead.

He didn't want to contemplate how that would be. Unless lymantri regrew their wings? He would have to ask about it later. Or else try and find another book. And hope that it wouldn't actually be a foot.

He looked up, then reached up to a diaphanous hindwing shaped like a rounded triangle. Age had faded the colors; based on his own small experiences with common lymantri hues, this wing had probably once been a rich mahogany with smaller white triangles, with curved, thin bands of black and lavender.

He unhooked it carefully, feeling like the entire thing would crumple to dust if he disturbed it too much, and he held it at waist-level, looking down, carefully fingering the scaled surface, which -- luckily -- did not get scraped away upon contact. He stared at it.

It did nothing.

Great.

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