The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,6
with as much patience as she could muster. “Again.”
“Oh.” Brevity’s face fell. She craned around Claire. “Rosia?”
The shadow behind Rami was empty. He frowned at it, then nodded. “I told her she could run off to the suite when you two started . . . discussing.”
Claire ignored the pirouette Rami had executed around the tension in the room in favor of addressing her concern straight on. “That’s the third time this week.”
Brevity studied her hands. “I know.”
“If the damsels are unhappy—”
“That’s a concern for the librarian, is it not?” Probity interrupted quietly. She offered a harmless smile when Claire frowned at her. “I mean, I am only a muse, but surely you have your own charges to worry about, Arcanist.”
Claire’s title slid off Probity’s tongue of polite sympathy. A syrupy quality of kindness that made her stomach roil. Claire pursed her lips. “I did not cede my personal investment in the Library when I stepped down. If the damsels are not kept in hand, it puts the entire wing at risk—”
“Which is the sole responsibility of the librarian,” Brevity said in a whisper. She was studying her hands, shoulders curved in like shields. “I appreciate your support, Probity, but Claire is right. If there’s a problem, it’s my fault.”
“That’s not true. None of this is your fault; if she hadn’t as librarian—” Probity started when Brevity held up a hand.
“I’ll speak to Rosia and the rest of the damsels. Maybe this time they’ll tell me what I can do to rectify the situation.” She hesitated, glancing at Claire. Her cheeks were flushed lavender. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention . . . and I’m sorry.” Brevity abruptly walked past her desk toward the stacks.
Damn. There was no end to Claire making a social muck of things. She started forward. “Brevity.”
Brevity stopped short and turned, anxiety ringing in every twitch of movement. Claire chewed on her lip and sought the right approach. “I know this falls entirely under your authority,” she said slowly, “but the Arcane Wing would consider it a great favor if we could assist with the Unwritten Wing’s investigation of this issue.”
Brevity’s shoulders sagged, if only a little. “Oh, right. Sure you can.” A sliver, a ghost really, of the old Brevity was there, easy and warm for just a moment before skittering from sight. “Would you, um, like to . . . ?” Wiggling fingers gestured toward the depths of the stacks where the damsel suite was located.
Claire kept her nod businesslike. “Please lead the way.”
It was a pantomime that kept them going. If Claire and Brevity had been intractable from librarian and apprentice, they had been forced to become someone else—something else—now. Arcane Wing and Unwritten. Duties instead of people. Claire, above all, knew how much easier it was to be a duty rather than a person. She also knew the damage it caused. She had worried at it but ultimately decided it was better than losing Brevity entirely. It was as much Claire’s unwillingness to let go of the Library as it was Brevity’s reluctance to step up, after all. They just needed time to settle. A quiet truce would eventually see them back to rights, or at least somewhere adjacent to it.
Claire followed Brevity down the canyons of wood and leather that made up the Unwritten Wing. Her mind continued to tick and twitch, impossible to not note all the hundreds of little things that had changed. The Unwritten Wing was supposed to be static, a place of preservation, but nothing overflowing with stories ever stayed the same. Claire could see the ways the wing had softened and shifted to suit Brevity, just as the Arcane Wing had for Claire. The biggest changes were immediately obvious; the blond woods and frosted-glass globes were gone, warmed to a ruddy cherry and curious silver starburst lights that had the impression of orbiting, ever so slightly, out of the corner of her eye. There were more subtle changes too. The ends of the stacks were capped with loud paintings that appeared to shift and vibrate with just as much life as the clutch of stacked books nested against the wood. It made Claire flinch to see books stacked on the floor—messy, loud, potentially damaging. Who knew what bad influence each story was having on others, fraternizing higgledy-piggledy like that? But Brevity never was as afraid of making a mess. Claire admired that, the courage to spill things, fix your mistakes, try again. Claire had never