The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,27
didn’t want to do that to you.”
“I asked you to.” Brevity couldn’t keep the loss out of her own voice. She offered a thin smile. “We saved Claire, so it’s worth it.”
Probity made a huffing sound at that, lips turning troubled. She pulled clean linen from an inner pocket and began to carefully wrap Probity’s arm in white. “You’re worth a hundred of that human.”
Warmth melted a chip off the hollow feeling in Brevity’s chest. She smiled. “C’mon, Prob. I thought you were only supposed to tell the truth.”
Probity tied off the bandage and pinned Brevity with a small sulk. “I am. That woman was a horrible librarian. She used you. She misused you.”
“She didn’t . . .” Brevity hesitated, before amending, “She didn’t mean to.”
Probity had been less defined growing up. The Probity that Brevity had known was a coltish question mark, the opposite of moral certainty. But she seemed comfortable in her own skin now. Her gangly limbs had grown into something wiry and strong, but the same wide eyes still scrutinized Brevity with a knowing gleam.
“But you’re the librarian now. This is major, Brev.” Probity squeezed her hands shyly. “I heard. We all heard, after it happened. I’m so proud of you. And I’m here to help you change things.”
A flutter of unease intruded on Brevity’s happiness. “That’s why the corps sent you here, really.”
“In a way, yes.” Probity appeared able to read the alarm in Brevity’s face and shook her head. “I volunteered, though. I’ve missed you. Are you— How are you?” Brevity let out a shaky sigh and didn’t even have to put words to it. Probity made a tsking noise and guided her by the shoulder. “Enough work. Sit.”
“But I was going to make tea—”
“I’ll do it. Isn’t that what you have your assistant for?”
“Hero’s my assistant.”
“Hero is a character and a book.” A streak of awe shored up the pity in Probity’s voice. “He’s a treasure and a tragedy to be sure, but you can’t expect him to care for you as I could.”
“You haven’t exactly caught us at our best, you know.” Brevity allowed herself to be manhandled onto the couch with minimal argument.
“Then it is a good thing I’m here to care for both of you,” Probity said as she placed the pot on the warmer. “You took care of me enough when we were young—won’t you let me return the favor?”
“Oh. It’s just—you came at an awkward time. I’m thrilled to see you—” And, gods, she was. Probity had been like a little sister as a half-grown muse. Following Brevity around, her fierce shadow. Seeing her grown made a quiet ache form in her chest, a kind of homesickness. “But . . . the ink, Claire . . . the Library. I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Probity’s smile was firm with resolve. “To help you.”
A distant voice in her head—one that sounded posh and stern and Claire-like—advised caution at such a grand statement. But this was Probity, as close to family as Brevity had ever had. Probity didn’t lie—it wasn’t in her nature. If she was here to help her, then she was. “After the fire, all the peop—all the books we lost. I thought—I thought we failed. But now, this ink—” She wasn’t making much sense. Brevity sensed with relief that Probity didn’t care. “It can’t be just a coincidence. It is the books we lost, isn’t it? The stories, I mean. Can we get them back? The stories that we destroyed?” Brevity asked, leaning forward. “Is it possible?”
“Destroyed?” Probity blinked. She stilled a moment, gaze flicking up and down Brevity with a new assessment before her hands came up in an aborted comforting gesture. Instead she fetched the steeped tea and pressed a cup of it into Brevity’s hands. “Oh. Oh, sis. You didn’t destroy them.”
It was too much. It was all too much. The fear for the damsels, the ink, the argument with Claire, and now the appearance of her lost family, telling her the one thing she wished was true. Heat welled up and Brevity’s vision blurred. “What do you mean? The books—”
The memory clogged her throat. She’d seen them. Seen the pages curl in translucent flames, been the last one to catch a glimpse of their words, ash on black. Heard the crack of leather, the smell like burnt flesh. And then she’d held small cold hands, as so many damsels faded away, drifting to death on a shiver of ash.