of parchment curling up through the debris. I paused, stooped, and dusted it off, finding a whole sheaf of scrolls buried there. Ushering away the surrounding junk, I extracted the manuscript and tucked it into the bag slung over my shoulder and across my chest. That would put off the demise of one more of the books in Manor Dorn's diminished library. It wasn't much, but we burned anything that fire would readily eat. If only it would eat plaster, I thought. Or glass, or stone, or rot.
I reached the floor of the sunken square, and began sifting around through the ruin. I found a doll, which I packed away for Viola, and a diary, which I stowed for the fire. Further on there was a small cooking pot – a bit bashed in and in need of a good cleaning, but still in working order – and some intriguing odds and ends that I discarded after fiddling around with. A slither of cloth seized my attention next, and I produced a scarf when I pulled it free of the rubble. I sincerely hoped it had not been attached to someone's neck a moment ago. I stuffed it in my bag.
I moved on, scanning the rich puzzle around me. I rustled up the remains of a shredded feather quill, and almost discarded it as useless, but remembered that Letta could make ink from a smattering of things in the garden. Beet juice, insect blood, and ashes, she said. It was a Serbaen trick. The only reason she hadn't shown me was because we had nothing to write with, and certainly nothing to write on, save the walls. Paper was for burning.
But perhaps the quill would come in handy sometime. And anyway, it didn't take up much space in my bag.
I nudged aside the bones of some animal, taken by something I saw underneath them. It was a red glass vial, unbroken, with liquid still corked inside it. Astounding, I thought, that it was not broken – but sometimes I found things like that, little miracles preserved in the carnage. Intrigued as always, I added it to my stash, to be introduced to the collection of similar artifacts I had saved at Manor Dorn.
My bag was beginning to take a toll on my shoulder. I had little but treasures in it so far, and so I narrowed my focus, re-designing it to zone in only on things of good use. To my good fortune, I spotted a tumble of books spilling down the base of the bank ahead of me, and I picked my way over to it. They would not all fit in my bag, but I could come back.
Stooping, I began to harvest the tomes, clapping closed their splayed covers and straightening them into a certain manner of order to better fit in my possession. Powder discharged as the pages boomed shut, and I fought the sneeze that tried to overcome me.
I was halfway up the rising spread of books, reaching for another one, when an onslaught of deadweight slammed into my body. I careened headlong down the bank, spilling into the square over the jutting, jarring terrain. It was like being plowed over rocks, sharp and unforgiving, battering me into what might very well be a pulp once I reached a resting place. I spasmed once, my senses shocked by the onrush, and fought the spots of blood and light that plagued my vision as I tried to push myself up off the disheveled ground.
My wrist gave out, but my elbow supported me. As I shifted, I felt glass under my body. It chimed a warning grind, and I felt the warmth of blood in numerous places before I felt the sting of lacerations. I shook the stars from my focus and rolled onto my side, and suddenly suffered the throb and lancing pain of the injuries I had attained. My body screamed in a thousand places.
Motion brought my focus to what had attacked me. The figure was scurrying about the hoard of books, stuffing them into his big coat pockets. The dirty pale blue of the garment swam in my vision as pain snaked down my neck. I let my head slacken toward the ground, maneuvering my arms underneath me to push my body up. Rubble crunched and chinked beneath me.
I resisted a groan as my wrist throbbed, and hoisted myself off the ground. With my feet beneath me, I fought my ailments and drew my knife