recognize anywhere. “Oh, Hero! Over here.”
A moment later, the man himself appeared in the doorway. His step hesitated as he noticed Probity, but he continued over to them with a shake of his head. “I don’t know how you always hear me coming.”
His book might have rejected him, but he still streamed colors like any unwritten book in her eyes. Brevity chewed on the grin that threatened. “Just a muse thing, I guess.” She turned her head to share her amusement with Probity, but a change had come over the younger muse. The excited look she’d had while explaining her dream to Brevity, the soft way she’d talked about the plight of stories, had turned pitying with the presence of one. Probity’s eyes lingered on Hero as he approached, and she tensed from what Brevity could only guess were nerves.
“Everything all right downstairs?” Brevity asked lightly.
“Claire has the Watcher locking up artifacts,” Hero said with a brief disapproving purse of his lips.
“Don’t be afraid. She can’t touch you anymore,” Probity reassured him a little too intensely. Hero gave her an odd look.
“Ah . . . yes. The monster is dead. I can finally sleep soundly.” Probity didn’t appear to catch the droll twist of Hero’s reply. She’d never been adept at sarcasm. Brevity quietly winced inside. Hero shrugged. “I suppose locking things up is what a librarian is best at.”
“She is not the librarian,” Probity said before Brevity could answer. She pinned Hero with a pitying look. “As a book you know that.”
“Do I? Thank you for the reminder. But as assistant librarian,” Hero said through a sharp-toothed smile, “I know how closely the Unwritten Wing and the Arcane Wing collaborate.”
“Tea, Hero?” Brevity interrupted, before Hero could further sharpen his tongue on Probity’s misplaced pity. She snatched the pot Probity had brewed off the stand. “Have some tea, Prob.”
“No, thank you,” Hero said while Probity accepted a cup. He gave Brevity a cautious glance. “I thought I’d spend some time in the stacks. Inventory, see if there’s anything the damsels need.”
Brevity wasn’t sure which was more suspect: Hero volunteering for inventory or Hero concerned for the damsels. She was not stupid, but it was obvious Hero wanted an excuse to avoid Brevity and her guest for a while.
She nodded assent and pointed to the cart loaded with books. “Those go back to the children’s fantasy section, please.”
Hero approached the cart, glanced at a title, and made a face. “Imaginary-friend stories. Why are these even books? I hate it when they wake up.”
“That’s why we shelve them quietly.”
Hero sniffed and kicked the cart ahead of him, in the direction of the stacks. “As you say. You’re the boss.” It never sounded the same when he said it. Less like a title and more like a reminder of what she wasn’t and never would be. Had it been the same for Claire?
“He’s forgotten his book,” Probity said contemplatively into the silence Hero’s departure left behind. “It’s a terrible tragedy for one to carry.”
“Hero’s making the best of it.” Probity hadn’t precisely said anything malicious, but Brevity felt a surge of protective instinct. “He’s learning fast.”
“And moving farther and farther away from his story.” Probity shook her head with a distant look in her eyes. “It’d almost have been kinder if he’d burned.”
Brevity’s stomach recoiled and brought her out of her chair. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s not what anyone wants to hear, but the truth rarely is,” Probity reminded her, a pitying look in her eyes. “Think of it, sis. He’ll never be written, and now he doesn’t even have the company of his own kind in his story. He exists simply as a reminder of the Library’s failure to protect him.”
That pierced a little too close to the darker spots in Brevity’s heart. “I’m trying to take care of everyone,” she said softly.
“Oh, sis, not you.” Probity looked far more abashed than she had when talking about Hero. She stood and touched Brevity’s arm apologetically. “You are doing everything right. You are setting so much right. You shouldn’t even be here. I simply meant he’ll never have his story, a character without an ending. What kind of life is that? At least loss is decisive.”
The oily feeling in Brevity’s gut was a mix of horror and old wounds. There was some truth in what Probity said—there was always some truth, but Brevity had learned long ago that some truth was not all truth. “Stop it. You weren’t there. The