The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,69

edge of her cotton jumpsuit nervously. She’d been mute at first—probably some author’s idea of a doe-eyed-alien reward for his space hero—and while she’d learned to speak over the years, she still kept words to herself like rare pearls.

Her response was to look penitent, then curl her arm around Brevity’s. Her hair was a mass of white curls, studded with silver tentacles, which twitched just at the ends. Brevity sighed and allowed her arm to be captured. She drew a soothing palm over Aurora’s knuckles. “What are you doing out here? Did you hear something?”

A nod. Brevity tried to ignore the way it fed the disquiet in her gut. “It was probably nothing. Just me stumbling around. Or the Library reorganizing.”

“No.” The certainty was enough to warrant a word. Aurora’s voice was less human and more synthesized bells. It sent a chill down Brevity’s spine. The book-heavy shelves swallowed the sound, but Brevity had to resist the urge to hush her. She thought she heard a shuffle, which could easily have been a painting relocating, a rug fluffing itself, or a book turning in its sleep.

But it didn’t feel like it was. Aurora’s nails were filed down from sharp claw ends to rounded little fingers, but still managed to scratch as they tightened on Brevity’s arm. She winced, found she had been leaning into the damsel unconsciously. She extracted herself and tried to think. Perhaps the Library was just trying to test her, perhaps she was letting her fears get the best of her sense, or perhaps something really was wrong.

In any scenario, hiding in the damsel suite until Claire returned was not the way for a librarian to behave. But that didn’t mean Brevity was going to make any moves without good reason. Aurora was watching her with skittish silver eyes. Brevity sighed and headed back for the front desk. She wasn’t surprised to hear the clip-clop of Aurora’s space-fawn feet shadowing behind her.

Nothing seemed disturbed on the desk. Brevity let Aurora keep a wary eye on the stacks as she located the midnight blue ledger at the bottom of a drawer, buried under gnarled thread and tea cozies. Claire pretended to be rigidly organized, but really she just hid her clutter well. She dropped open the book on the table and cleared her throat. She placed one finger to the blank page.

“Execute inventory: full.”

If there was something out of place in the Library—or something missing from it—she’d know soon. Or, if she was lucky, the others would return before she had a chance to screw this up. Nerves singing, Brevity clutched an empty teacup to her chest as the book began to hum.

20

CLAIRE

We expect books to attempt to force change, but not the librarians. Dead things are not supposed to change, to grow. But here I am, a century into this role, and . . . I don’t recognize myself anymore. Maybe it’s best to say I don’t recognize the Library. Not knowing what I know now.

I wonder if there are other places for us. But I won’t abandon my charges.

Librarian Poppaea Julia, 48 BCE

CLAIRE WOKE AS THE sun began to bake the moisture off her skin. She opened her eyes to a dazzling world of sunbaked dust and aquamarine. She also woke choking on seawater.

“Ma’am? Oh, thank . . . well, ah. Thank somebody. You all right?” Leto crouched on the stone, a trembling hand on her shoulder as she coughed her lungs clear of the taste of old glaciers and burning pine.

She wiped her watering eyes. They were in an alley paved with pale squares. Sandstone, Claire decided, feeling the grit under her fingers as she pushed herself up. She waved off Leto’s concern and took a moment to orient herself.

It was Earth. Claire could tell that just from the air. The air in afterlife realms like Valhalla and Hell was thinner, brighter almost, each lungful colored with the realm’s spirits. Valhalla had smelled of wildflowers, ice, and steel, while Hell left the taste of ash and anise in her mouth.

But Earth was not so simple. The air was weighted by the contradictions and messy complexities of its inhabitants. She could smell stone and warm earth and a dozen trace scents of a living, breathing city. And the sea. The faint salty and green notes of the water in the quay stung her nose. They were in an old port city, then. Hopefully in Malta.

The codex. Alarm jolted her fully alert, and Claire furrowed her