The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,62
It felt like a weight settled on her shoulders. She stood, slinging the bag from her grasp. She first dug out Hero’s book, newly replaced pages still gleaming glaring white next to their faded yellow cream brothers. She held it out to him with one hand. “You’re still in Special Collections, mind. Don’t make me regret this.”
“As always, your faith sustains me.” Hero found an inside coat pocket, and the book diminished slightly to fit.
Claire carried the bag over to Brevity and slung the strap over her assistant’s head before she could protest. “Hold these for now.”
Brevity’s nose crinkled as she took the bag. “What are you thinking, boss?”
“Just hold them. We’re not leaving quite yet,” Claire said, dodging the question. That part could wait. Rid of her possessions, she turned again to Bjorn. In her chest there was a lightness that was unexpected. Hollow, vulnerable, but it was done. The act of doing had a decisive power in itself. “Ready when you are, storyteller.”
Bjorn nodded and turned toward the bookcase near the fireplace. He shuffled the scrolls on the middle shelf for a moment before there was a thunk. The shelves melted into thin air to reveal a night full of stars behind it. “We’ll need to get away from my collection as well, if we’re going to be proper about it.”
17
BREVITY
[An entry barely legible through a halfhearted attempt to blot and scrape the parchment clean:]
I’ve been through the records. Each apprentice in the Library can expect, on average, at least a couple decades of education before the sitting librarian retires to wherever they go.
Decades.
. . . I had three years.
I can’t do this. Gregor, I can’t do this. Please.
[Entry followed by a much clearer addition:]
Arcanist Andras has politely offered to assist in the Unwritten Wing until I can brief myself on the full log of instructions. He’s been efficient and helpful, and not asked any more questions than necessary. He’s a godsend, as blasphemous as that phrase may be in my present situation. More than that, he’s been kind. He brought me a new teakettle the other day. God knows where you acquire such a thing down here.
I suppose I’ll have all the time in the world to repay the kindness.
Librarian Claire Hadley, 1989 CE
VALHALLA WAS A CANDY jar to a muse. Brevity’s fingers traced the carved wood handle of her mug and she grinned into the fizzy drink, a little drunk on the feeling of it. Valhalla was as full of art and beauty as any afterlife, but what set it apart was passion. Strength and survival and unbridled passion, not anchored to a single song or story but lived. Knit in the blood flow. Salted in the sweat. Simmered in the saliva.
Hmm. Yes, it had definitely gone to Brevity’s head. Not that she could be faulted; if inspiration was the trade of muses, passion was their fuel.
After Claire had foisted her bag onto Brevity and followed Bjorn, Hero had announced he needed to drink, and Brevity followed under the guise of making sure he didn’t disappear with his book. That had been nearly an hour ago. Now Hell’s contingent took up a table at the far side of the hall and sat—human, demon, book, and muse—avoiding one another by contemplating their drinks. It struck Brevity that Claire had picked them all up, for one reason or another, like toy soldiers. Without her abrading presence, they fell apart.
Brevity, at the very least, could fix that. “Whatchya got?” she asked, perhaps a bit too loudly, pointing to Leto’s drink.
He nearly choked on his sip. “Cider. Hero found it for me.”
“From the kids’ table,” Hero supplied with a wink.
“Not sure Valhalla would have that,” Brevity said.
“With these savages, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was. Can’t you see it? Murderous children! Slaying toddlers for honor and other useless virtues . . .” Hero managed to get his bandage wet as his drink sloshed. He pulled a face. “At least there’s liquor.”
“No desire for honor?” Andras joined in, which surprised Brevity. In all the years she’d been in his acquaintance, the Arcanist had possessed excellent manners but also a low tolerance for small talk. Now he looked at Hero like he was a particularly novel new artifact.
“Honor is nothing but cold pity for the dead. Better not to fail at staying alive. Or avoid the conflict in the first place,” Hero said.
Andras’s eyes narrowed. “A rather unorthodox position for a hero to take.”