The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,4
of inspiration and naturally attracted to color. She wore a layer cake of soft knits: white cashmere over blue lace and yellow tatter. The bubblegum pink ribbon in her hair was clasped with a tiny bird skull. The effect was as if a porcelain doll had escaped the tyranny of petticoats and discovered the pastel goth aesthetic as an act of rebellion. She had a detached kind of smile as she nodded to Claire, voice airy with politeness. “You must be the former librarian, then.”
Claire had the grace not to flinch. “I am the Arcanist of the Arcane Wing. I expect to be pleased to make your acquaintance.” She chose her words precisely, and it was petty, but Claire believed she could be afforded that much, all things considered.
“My mistake, Arcanist.” Probity’s head tilted as if she were about to add something more, but Brev interrupted with a cleared throat.
“And this is Hero. And Ramiel.”
Their guest muse turned. “Master Ramiel, shepherd of souls, it’s an honor.” Her face reshuffled into a formal kind of respect as she nodded to Rami and spared a little wave for Rosia, who was hiding half in Rami’s shadow. Her gaze didn’t linger until it got to Hero. Probity’s eyes widened. “Oh, this is the book? The book?”
“Yes?” Hero hesitated as Probity straightened attentively. “Or no. That depends what I’m accused of.”
Probity drew up close, peering into his face for apparent confirmation. She only came up to Hero’s chest, so she strained to her tiptoes. There was a little awe in her voice, and a limpid amount in her wide eyes. “You really are. Hero, the character that broke his own book. The book that’s forgotten itself.”
“Broken, that’s me. Charmed.” Hero cleared his throat, red in his cheeks. Evidently Brevity had not warned Probity that behind all the bluster, Hero was wary of strangers. He made to step back, but Probity clapped her hands abruptly around his face.
“Oh,” Probity whispered with reverence. “You’re amazing.”
Hero made a noise of stifled discomfort. Claire was about to intervene when Probity withdrew her hands with a blush. “We heard so much about you, after the burning. The book so damaged to reject its own character. Do you . . .” She stepped into his space again. “Do you have it on you? I’d love to see it.”
“A gentleman never tells. Quite forward, aren’t you?” Hero didn’t jump back, but it was a near thing. He stepped sideways, placing the desk between Probity and himself.
“Probity gets straight to the truth,” Brevity explained, and Claire thought there was a graphite streak of protectiveness in her light tone. “You get used to it.”
“Will I?” Only once Hero was certain that Probity would not pursue did he straighten his jacket. “I had no idea muses took such interest in lost causes.”
“Those are the causes I have the most interest in,” Probity said, smiling. “I would very much like to examine your book someday, if you would allow me. Nothing is truly lost. That’s just where the brand-new opportunities lie. Brevity taught me that.”
“I did? Oh, I did. Probity and I grew up together. Back”—Brevity made a purposefully vague gesture—“when we were younger.”
Muses did not age, so much as they came into their innate nature. Young muses, from what Claire understood, often clustered and grew relationships around sympathetic affinities. A muse of Brevity befriending a muse of Probity made a certain kind of sense. Brevity did not like to talk about her past as a muse, and Claire respected that. It didn’t keep her from eyeing Probity carefully. At least she’d drawn her attention away from Hero, who looked almost grateful for it. “The muses honor us with a visit.”
A small crease appeared between Probity’s brows, as if Claire had asked a question that troubled her. “Yes.”
“Probity’s an amazing muse,” Brevity interjected. “Her skill with inspiration gilt is better than anyone’s, and the way she can work with even old gilt—”
“You remember that,” Probity said with a soft color to her cheeks.
“Why?” Claire asked, too sharp and too quick. Hell, her social skills had gotten rusty. “Why visit now?”
The blush curdled on Probity’s cheeks and she frowned. Brevity rushed in. “Of course, I’m thrilled to see you again. But the muses haven’t been exactly . . . communicative . . . with the Unwritten Wing in recent years.”
“And we regret the breakdown as much as we’re sure the Library does.” Probity’s eyes flicked once to Claire, wary as a cat’s, but then were all