experiment.”
“Blood and ink, please.” Claire needed something, anything, right now to get her out of this eerie damsel suite and propelled along any path that would start making sense of this.
“I’m going to need a sample of the ink to test—safely this time. If there’s anything left of an unwritten story in it, we’ll probably have better luck testing it on something native to the Library.”
Claire struggled to follow that thought. Brevity would never test on a precious Library book, but that only left one thing. There was only one book inherent to the Library that wasn’t an unwritten story.
“The logbook. But it’s not like the other books in the Library. No originating author, for one.” Claire drew in a sharp breath. “Using the Librarian’s Log book as a test subject is . . . unprecedented. Dangerous.”
Brevity met her eyes, wary, as if it was a test. Everything felt like a test between them these days, a test of boundaries, a test of respect. It made Claire’s chest ache, but Brevity just straightened to her feet cautiously. “Librarian’s prerogative.” And then, perhaps because she saw the minuscule flinch Claire tried to hide, she attempted to soften it. “I learned from the best, after all.”
5
BREVITY
I’ve had a few weeks to get used to it now: being dead. Dead, and a librarian at that. Not even death stops the world from expecting a woman to take care of things. At least it’s not eternity at the cook fire.
There was supposed to be another, here in the Library. I’ve gleaned that much, from what the demons have said. The Arcanist is a glum living statue. She doesn’t like me much, but it appears she has as much say in the matter as I do. She says there was a librarian before—an experienced one who would have trained me, taught me all the secrets of this place. She’s gone. Exiled? Doubly dead? Deposed? I’m not certain, only that everyone is terribly mute as to why.
The Arcanist, Revka, says I’ll just have to pick up the basics. As much as she doesn’t like me, there’s a deep sadness in her, stone heart and all. I’d like to say I was kind enough not to ask, but I’m not—I was told off for my troubles.
They say this is supposed to be a library, a salon of learned words. But it doesn’t feel like a library. It feels like a tomb.
Librarian Madiha al-Fihri, 602 CE
RAMI AND HERO HAD, in fact, objected to their plan.
They’d objected—loudly, in Hero’s case—and expressed their concerns—gravely, in Rami’s case—and then Claire and Brevity had done, as always, what they thought was best. It was almost like working together again. Almost.
The pond of ink had not moved since they left it. It lapped silently against the broken boards at the same level it had been before. Normal liquid might have evaporated, or sunk into porous wood and whatever the bedrock of Hell was made of. Instead, the surface lay flush with the broken wood floorboards, black against beech. Claire allowed Brevity to handle the gloves, tongs, and vial as a small acquiescence to Rami’s demands. The unease in Claire’s eyes was enough to convince Brevity this was no time for indulging muse curiosity—she came only close enough to the edge of the liquid as was necessary to stopper a vial full. The rubber cork popped on the top, and that was that.
The trip back to the Unwritten Wing was quick and amiable. Brevity let Claire carry the sample, once the vial had been scrupulously wiped and she was certain every smidge of ink was contained. Perhaps the mystery in the bottle would repair some of the unspoken rift that had divided Claire from her since the coup. Perhaps this was all that was needed—a common mystery, a common task. Brevity entertained that hope with a growing certainty.
The liquid in the vial bobbled. That’s how Brevity knew that Claire had hesitated a step—just a fraction of a step—just as they turned the corner and the Unwritten Wing doors came into view.
“Claire?” Brevity asked when she didn’t say anything.
“It’s nothing. No—sorry.” Claire fiddled with the dangerous sample in her hand as she apologized. Both actions being wildly uncharacteristic, enough that Brevity stopped in her tracks. Claire shook her head dismissively. “I saw it before; I just keep forgetting. . . . Thirty years is a lot to unlearn.”
Brevity glanced uncertainly to the doors, and her stomach did a flip as pieces fell into place.