The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,104

curved under his chin and raised his face. The figure in front of him was slightly more distinct than the others, perhaps younger with less dust on their book. They had holes for eyes, but somewhere inside the socket of black there was a flicker. Almost color. Navy against black, Hero thought. They’d had blue eyes once.

“A life is a question.” Hero paused, but there was no recognition. No flicker of kinship. The figure waited. Hero wet his lips. “And then what happened?”

A whisper, almost like long-coming release, ruffled the air with frost around him. The charcoal smudge that was the figure’s mouth trembled, then parted. The glowing dust increased, swirling in eddies as figures opened their mouths, drew in breath.

And Hero listened.

28

CLAIRE

If I am to remake the Library, then it follows that I am to remake the librarians as well. No use modeling ourselves after the human equivalent—in my time, the only reason I had the education I did was because of the wealth and status of my family. Even then, I would never have been made a scholar in charge of learning. Scholars are more hungry for control and the blessings of the powerful than for knowledge.

So this is my charge: We will be librarians. True to the books, but even more important, dedicated to those who have yet to read them. Understand that our duty does not end at the edge of a page. Stories must serve the living, not the reverse. If knowledge is freedom, then we must be chain breakers. If there’s one thing I learned from the specter of my predecessor, it is this: to be a librarian is to be in rebellion against time, against the world.

Librarian Madiha al-Fihri, 612 CE

CLAIRE WASTED PRECIOUS TIME with another visit back to the Library. She couldn’t quite believe Brevity had abandoned them—it—abandoned it, Claire corrected. She couldn’t believe that Brevity would abandon the Library, the books, the damsels who relied on her. It wasn’t like her, not the Brevity Claire knew. Thought she knew.

But there was no denying the dust. Brevity’s books lay open. The tea that had been merely abandoned earlier had now grown cold and silt sifted. There was a muddy boot print on the blotter. Brevity hadn’t even locked up the Library—the logbook was buried underneath a dynasty fantasy she’d been repairing. Claire pulled it out by the edge and studiously ignored the feeling that she was snooping. She’d had thirty years to stare at this book; she’d earned the right to updates.

The book fell open on her lap, fluttering to a specific page with an almost lazy murmur of pages. The latest entry was written in Brevity’s loopy, shy hand:

Log entry number whatever. I’m not even sure I should be writing this down. Is it muse business or Library business? I’m not certain anymore, and there’s no one to ask. Maybe that’s why I’m writing it here.

It almost feels like reporting to boss again. Claire. She doesn’t like it when I call her boss anymore. If she would just talk to me, we could be doing this together. Probity is so certain that this ink will unlock muses, turn us from conduits to creators. She’s so certain. I’m not, but isn’t it worth the risk? Isn’t it what’s best for the books? We could get them written, remake what was lost. If ink is what remains of the lost books, then I want to give them that chance.

Claire’s isolated herself. Hero’s not here. Probity’s like a sister; I shouldn’t feel alone. But it’s like she’s seeing past me, six months into the future or six years into the past. When I’m here. And trying.

I’m trying. I have to try.

Claire smoothed out the parchment under her fingertips before closing the book softly and returning it to its proper place in the bottom right-hand drawer. The faerie lights that lined the fronts of the stacks held back the gloom with a cheer that she didn’t feel. The Library was a sigh, without a librarian here to draw a new breath. The books beckoned, tempting Claire to wander in. She could make up a purpose, to speak to the muses, to do a patrol of the stacks since Brevity had left them so abandoned. But there was only one book she was looking for, and she wouldn’t find it here.

If only Claire would talk to me . . .

Claire retrieved the log, picked up the pen, and was writing before she could