The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,60
Yoon Ji Han is too polite to say it, of course, but he would lose his knickers at the gambling table. It is obvious that he thinks he’s humoring me. Mad . . . now, that’s a peculiar term, and, saints, don’t they love applying it to women. Women have a special facility for madness. We’re encouraged to go mad over the littlest things, because if our anger caught and held on the big things, we’d shape the world.
It’s acceptable to be mad; it’s dangerous to be angry.
The secret is that I am both.
Librarian Fleur Michel, 1792 CE
BREVITY HADN’T NEEDED AN explanation of the situation, when two damsels had stumbled, red-eyed and panicked, out of the depths of the stacks. She’d been idly doing log work while catching up on gossip from the corps that amused Probity, but Chiara and Becca’s entrance stopped the conversation dead. Brevity knew the damsels by sight. Becca’s cheeks were flushed with distress and she had a vise grip on Chiara, who looked prepared to punch someone. Or anyone. That might have been status quo for Chiara, but Becca’s face had Brevity slapping the logbook closed and grabbing for her pen.
Probity was a beat behind her. Perhaps it had been because they’d been reminiscing, but a pang of familiarity struck Brevity as Chiara led the way into the stacks. Running here and there, Probity behind her like a loyal pastel ghost. It left Brevity with a kind of vertigo, feeling like the memory of two people at once. Brevity the cocksure muse, ready to inspire the world. That’d been easier than Brevity the librarian, hesitant and unprepared for whatever emergency had the damsels so upset.
The path they were taking was familiar; they were headed to the damsel suite. The thought of another threat there made her heart bottom out. Brevity glanced to her side, but Probity kept pace with fierce determination, not even breathing hard as she nodded. “Whatever you need. I’ve got your back.”
That helped both versions of herself solidify together, if only for a moment. Brevity took a breath and followed Chiara through the suite door with determination. She could handle this, any situation; she was prepared; she could handle this just as well as—
“Claire!”
Brevity felt it like a strangling kind of montage. Scalpel pressed to a bleeding wound on a thin arm. Lucille’s resigned way she stifled a flinch at the pain. Claire’s expression as she turned, some kind of dull pragmatism. And the ink. The ink seemed to drown out everything, smeared across paper-fragile skin, welling at the incision, smudging Claire’s fingertips, dripping . . .
No, not dripping or smudging; that was a different memory, a different time. Brevity sucked in a breath. “What are you doing?”
Claire was occupied with the vial of gore in her hands, stoppering it with a calm that sparked rage in the pit of Brevity’s stomach. Claire looked up. “I’m doing my job. And you?”
There was a guarded reserve there, a waver that said she knew, she knew, she was doing something wrong. It was too familiar: the stiff line of Claire’s back, the distant, flat look as she lifted her chin. Brevity knew that look, knew. It was the way Claire always looked when she felt it necessary to do something cruel.
Brevity steadied herself by application of her nails into the palms of her hands. “Step away from Lucille, Claire.”
Claire flinched as if slapped but drew herself up and took half a step apart from the older woman. “I have what I need, in any case.”
“And what would that be?” Probity asked lowly. She’d brushed up to Brevity’s shoulder, a small gesture meant to be supportive. A soft horror colored Probity’s soft voice, and her eyes were wide. “What use does a librarian have for blood?”
“Library business is not attacking people!” Brevity hadn’t meant to shout, but the sick feeling bubbled up through her throat. Many of the damsels stood in their places, still as stone. Becca was already helping Lucille wrap a clean towel over her arm. Lucille was too stubborn to return to her book to heal, but she’d be fine—Brevity knew this, but the fact was too quiet to drown out the recoil that Claire had bled a character. She’d damaged a book. Even now, after all that had happened. Probity laid a steadying hand on her shoulder and Brevity remembered herself. Yes. She was the librarian now. “We should talk about this, Claire. Outside.”