The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,56

That might explain why it never dried, no matter how long it sat. No film developed like on her skin; no pieces flaked away. Just an infinite, oil-slicked black, swallowing the light and every color in the spectrum and giving back nothing, nothing at all.

“An unknown variable requires caution,” Claire muttered, feeling ridiculous for having a raven as a lab partner. There was nothing to be learned by glaring at her reflection in this bit of ink. She carefully set the dish aside and dug around for gloves to prepare a new sample.

All Claire wished to do right now was hurtle the damn sample into the bin. This was Claire’s problem to solve. The only thing she could do was solve it. If she didn’t understand the ink, then what good was she?

“Enough experiments.” Claire sat back, glaring at the table. She’d put off the thought as long as she could. “Jars, ashes, ink . . . it’s all nonsense. I need a comparison.”

A comparison. The idea lightninged through her, less like an illumination and more like a shock. Sharp, cutting, and then gone. If the ink had once been books, then it had once been damsels too. Rosia had led them here, under a compulsion, a connection. She’d called the ink “they.”

Claire had been so determined to keep the ink from the Unwritten Wing, but she’d been going about it wrong. It was important to keep the ink out of harm for the librarian. Not the wing.

“Books know stories. Walter, you’re a genius.” Claire had to speak to the damsels immediately.

Claire straightened from her slump and grabbed several empty sample bottles. It was a risky experiment and would require fresh bottles. “Bird, watch the artifacts for a spell.”

Bird croaked and tilted her head at Claire’s hurried movements, bleak eyes tracking her hands for any sign of an edible treat. “Later,” Claire reassured her. If the damsels held the answers she sought, she’d give Bird the whole cracker box.

* * *

* * *

THE DOORS OF THE Unwritten Wing drew her to a stop, yet again. It was a ridiculous hang-up. Claire needed to obliterate her memory of them in her mind. She stopped down the hall from the doors, and a shiver of cold drew across the nape of her neck like a clammy hand. Surely the doors hadn’t been this towering. Brevity must have darkened the stain, giving it a glow of amber and red that only served to remind Claire of fire. She could almost still smell the ghost of smoke on the air, the grit and sulfur presence of never afters and poor ends. Lost stories. She had a visceral memory of how the wood boards had squelched ever so slightly under her feet as she left, waterlogged with the last-ditch efforts to save the stacks.

If the doors had been closed, Claire would have turned around right then. It would have been too much to reach out and touch, to relive the feeling of blasting through those doors into a sanctuary invaded. The sear of ash, the fetid exhale of demons, ink, and blood.

But the doors were open, as they should have been. Claire forced a purposefully deep breath and caught the scent of old leather, paper, and the faint not-unpleasant ripple of anise that existed in the background of all of Hell. No ash, no rot.

It wasn’t a hard task to slip into the Library, once Claire could get past her own ghosts. Claire kept her eyes carefully focused ahead, diverting them only long enough to ascertain that the librarian’s desk was empty. Brevity must have been somewhere in the labyrinth of stacks, deeper in the Library and perhaps in comfortable conversation with Probity. Recalling old times. Claire would be here and gone before she could bother them.

The stacks had remained largely organized the same, thank goodness. If Claire focused very carefully on the end of each row, she could pretend not to notice all the little differences. Like the reflection of cheerful faerie lights off warm cherrywood. Or the things that remained so achingly the same, like the soft constant susurrus of sleeping unwritten books. It was constant and soothing, like waves on a smooth shore.

It was impossible to tell which hurt worse.

If there was one thing with which Claire was experienced, it was the alchemy of turning pain to usefulness. By the time she reached the small frosted door of the damsel suite, the ache had become a stone, and stone had become