Ognar tipped the heavy chest’s contents across the living room floor, archaic knitting patterns slipped towards every corner of the room.

‘Oh, Ognar,’ Myrtle sighed, hands clasped beneath her chin, ‘you shouldn’t have carried that on your own… the chest itself weighs a tonne, and all that paper…’ her voice trailed off as she noticed the red bound book between the ageing collection of quirky tank tops.

‘Don’t you worry about me, my sweet little pomegranate,’ Ognar said cheerfully as Myrtle retrieved the book, the colour draining out of her face as she looked inside the front cover.

‘Oh Ognar…’ Myrtle said again, this time her voice considerably deeper, ‘date of loan 10th February 1956, return due April Fool’s Day of that same year… late return fee 1d per day… one penny per day… Ognar seventy years of interest and adjusted fees… we owe millions!’

Ognar smiled, ‘my dearest dessert apple, stop panicking… we’ll go into the library tomorrow and say we found this, they’ll see we don’t have millions of pounds to pay the fine, and let us off.’

He smiled cunningly; ‘and if they don’t, I’ll have a quiet word with Herbert Floo, the mayor, he owes us a favour or two, doesn’t he?’

Posted for Six Sentence Stories. Denise’s prompt word for this week is Loan.