The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,28

She’d seen them go. And afterward she’d sobbed herself empty as they gathered and interred what ashes they could. Breathing in the soot of lost stories. Leto had hugged her, though he wasn’t supposed to touch anyone by then. And then she lost him too.

Probity had wrapped an arm around her and didn’t say a word. Brevity got herself under control, even if her voice was thin as paper as she repeated, “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t destroy them,” Probity repeated gently. “What happened was a travesty. That, that woman”—Probity’s comforting pats turned a little more forceful as she mentioned Claire—“she was not fit to hold the title of a librarian. She barely is fit to hold the title of a human. The things she did, that she allowed to be done. But even she can’t destroy a story.”

It was true that Claire had sunk into a fierce, hurtful isolation when she’d taken the title of librarian. Hiding her own hurts, she’d become rigid with the rules and exacting in enforcing them. She’d been harsh and cold when Brevity had joined the Library. But hadn’t they all changed since then? Brevity barely knew where to start, but old loyalty rose first. “Claire worked harder than anyone. She was a—”

“She treated you horribly!” There was earnest anger there, and Probity’s voice was harder now than when she’d spoken of the books. “That’s why you were sent here, wasn’t it? For punishment. I can’t imagine how hard it was. Sis . . .” Probity searched her face with a deep, earnest kind of sympathy.

Brevity started to shake her head. “But it wasn’t—”

“But even a bad librarian can’t destroy stories. They’re made of stronger stuff than that.” The smile on Probity’s lips was brief before dropping into a darker expression. “Only the living can kill a story. Humans do it every day.”

The animosity in Probity’s soft voice was a velvet razor, the threat of which was impossible to miss. A cutting change, swift and harsh as a rockfall, came across her expression. But Brevity was distracted by what else she was saying. “You’re saying the damsels—the unwritten books—are still alive.”

Probity shook her head. “‘Alive’ is . . . a funny way to put it. No, the books are destroyed and gone, but the stories . . . the potential . . . that’s preserved in the ink. And that’s the powerful part.”

Claire had said something similar, and the way the ink had swarmed and fluxed on the log page certainly seemed like a living thing. Brevity’s gaze strayed to where the logbook rested, closed and inert on the massive librarian’s desk. Brevity still thought of it as Claire’s desk. “We could bring them back?”

“I thought that small, too, at first,” Probity whispered, drawing Brevity’s attention back. She was shaking her head with some kind of deep empathy. “We’re taught to think that small. But seeing the ink work the wonders it did . . . that it exists is a miracle. It’s a sign. You have the Library now—and the support of the Muse Corps. Think about it, sis! We can do more than just restore the way things were.”

We. Being a “we” with the muses again; longing for that warred with the caution still echoing in Brevity’s head. “Like what?”

Probity’s bottom lip worried and caught between her teeth, seeming to hesitate over her words. She took a breath. “New books, fresh books. We would replace what the Library lost and more.” There was a hopeful, sunrise kind of light in Probity’s gray eyes, like her entire face was blooming. It brightened her, brought to mind old games and pranks they’d played, and made Brevity smile.

“Like, new stories? Brand-new? How could that be possible? Which humans—”

“It’s possible.” Probity clutched her hands in front of her, almost as if she were still that little sister. Sisters, sharing a secret daydream. “New stories, recovered stories. Who knows what else? But first we need a sample of the ink to experiment.”

That snapped over Brevity like a flinch of frost. She straightened. “No more experiments. Claire and I already tried. You saw what happened. It rejected the paper straight out.”

Probity thought about that for a moment, growing solemn and certain. “Then next time we don’t try paper.”

There were so many options, Brevity had trouble deciding which part of that sentence alarmed her more. As she passed Probity’s shoulder, she caught a glancing wisp of emerald and periwinkle near the Library doors. That was a color combination she’d