The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,17

Understanding doused the warm feeling in her chest. The Unwritten Wing had changed to suit its new librarian, just as the Arcane Wing had accommodated Claire. To Brevity, it’d felt like the Library’s small way of welcoming her. The doors were a soft ruddy color that reminded Brevity of sunsets, accented by the crisp silver in the handles. Strings of faerie lights just inside the door washed the entrance in a gentle kind of glow.

But Brevity could see it now through Claire’s eyes, and that empathy threw it all into sharp, alien relief. The changes Brevity had made to the Unwritten Wing no longer felt cheery—they felt garish. Cherry-stained wood a shade too red and bright, faerie lights illuminating the aisles cheap instead of cozy. A plastic imitation of the distinguished Library that Claire had known. Brevity’s heart tilted and fell between her ribs. She kept her face tilted down as she hurried across the lobby to her desk.

“Just a minute . . .” There was one thing that didn’t change along with the Library, and maybe that’d smooth over the knot of awkwardness forming in Brevity’s chest. She rifled around in the drawer until she came up with a thick, battered-looking book.

The Librarian’s Log had a blotchy leather cover the precise color of mistakes—ink smudges and the shadow of grubby fingerprints—with enough scuffs and scars that left the surface feeling more like bark than cured leather. It wasn’t the largest book in the Library, but it still took Brevity both hands to wrestle it out and drop it onto the blotter with a solid whump that echoed to the high ceilings.

“Open it up, if you would.” Claire carefully found an empty teacup to balance the vial upright in. Brevity wasn’t as tidy about her desk as Claire. Clutter was conducive to thinking. At least that’s what she told Hero when he got on her about it.

Brevity flipped open the log, not bothering to be precise. The logbook always flopped open to the necessary page. Sometimes, your definition of “necessary” didn’t line up with the log’s, but Brevity had decided long ago that trusting the book was part of a librarian’s job too. Letting books take you where they might—that was one part of the Library’s magic. The other part was the centuries of log entries from past Unwritten Wing librarians, all in perfectly readable script, no matter the age or the originating language, never in reliable order, but also never an end to empty pages, no matter how much you wrote. The log contained everything from inventories of books to an index of techniques and research and, of course, the personal log of the librarian and their assistant.

Books were a kind of magic everywhere. Especially here, especially this book.

Claire rummaged in her pocket until she found a fountain pen. Brevity preferred the honest feel of charcoal on paper, but for some reason Claire had always preferred the modern inventions. Not too modern, mind you. Brevity once filched some standard ballpoint pens to bring back to Claire as a surprise. You would have thought she’d deposited a dead snake on her desk instead.

Of course, that’d been back when Claire was the librarian. Stern and unwilling to engage with the world. Getting a smile back then had felt like wresting the sword from the stone. But she’d been kind to Brevity, and she’d softened since then. She’d exhibited kindness, even toward books like Hero. But the smiles she gave Brevity now—only Brevity—were tight-lipped, reined in. It felt like Brevity had become one of her ghosts.

“You’ve kept up admirably,” Claire murmured as she ran a finger down the displayed log entries. It was a consoling, awkward comment, and Brevity tried to remind herself Claire might feel as out of sorts with this moment as she did.

Brevity straightened and smiled. “Never liked log work, but Hero’s handwriting is atrocious.”

“All those flourishes,” Claire hissed, and Brevity’s smile brightened.

“Everything short of dotting his i’s with hearts.”

“It’s not handwriting; it’s script.” Hero emerged from the stacks near the door, Probity and Ramiel in tow. They’d agreed—reluctantly—to speak with the damsels and make sure there would be no curious onlookers for a second experiment with the ink. Probity, as usual, kept her thoughts to herself, but there was a disgruntled air between the men, obvious and palpable immediately. Brevity offered a questioning look, but Rami just hunched his shoulders while Hero put all his energy into propping himself against the desk. He had never met a piece