ask for advice, or Hero at the very least to suggest the worst possible option so I could rule it out. But he’s gone and—”
“The book is gone?” Probity interrupted.
“Off researching what we can about the ink from our end. He co-opted Rami, said he might get lost in the stacks for a few days, but . . .” Brevity waved her hand. “I suspect he’s found a loophole to sneak out again to other realms. Don’t tell Claire. Hero will come back; I think he’ll always come back now.”
“I won’t.” Probity had a troubled look. It seemed to take some effort to shake herself to focus again. “I mean, of course I wouldn’t tell that woman anything. Do you think she’ll try—”
Brevity was already shaking her head. “No. I think I . . . Gods, Probity, I hurt her. I was just so upset that she could do that, after all this time. After everything—” Brevity stopped herself. No good trying to explain Claire’s winding history with the unwritten books of the Library, not now. “There was something weird about her too. And instead of fixing it I messed it all up.”
“We can fix things,” Probity promised. Brevity shook her head.
“Humans are complicated. There’re these emotions and it’s . . . tricky.”
“So we don’t fix the humans,” Probity said quietly.
There was a thread of intensity that tugged Brevity’s head up. Probity was still sitting on the edge of the desk, hands folded in her lap. Still small, still soft, but more somehow. Burning with an intense certainty, the kind of look Claire got when there was trouble. When the solution would be the kind of insanity that Brevity had trouble saying no to.
“What?” Brevity echoed.
“We don’t fix the humans. The books—that’s what’s worth saving. You said it yourself back there. That’s your duty, isn’t it? And if we fix the unwritten stories, the humans will sort themselves out.” Not that Probity seemed to care about mortal problems. She faltered, chewing on a lip before pressing forward. “Have you thought about what I proposed earlier?”
More than thought about it. The possibility burned a hole in Brevity’s pocket. “Maybe.”
Probity hesitated, allowing the silence to draw tight between them until she could be certain of what wasn’t being said. What Brevity couldn’t say but was ready to consider. Probity nodded once, expression easing. “‘Maybe’ is good enough to explore the possibility. If we can just find a way to get a sample of the unwritten ink the Arcanist is keeping.”
“I might . . .” Brevity began slowly. She took a breath, squeezing her eyes shut before committing to the door she was about to open. “I might already have the answer to that.”
Brevity inched her fingers into her pocket and withdrew a single vial of ink.
It took Probity a moment to register it. Not the whipping, reaching tendrils of gold and violet that would have been Lucille’s ink. Her dark eyes narrowed, then widened as she recognized the static cloud, the chopped-up color of error and loss, as it roiled off the ink inside.
“The unwritten ink,” Probity breathed.
“I switched them,” Brevity confirmed, embarrassed at the guilt she felt. Claire would notice eventually, but it would take her a while, not seeing the colors of the world as muses did. “One experiment—one. Just to see if your idea works. And the books have to be protected—”
“We won’t be needing the damsels for this, or any of the books,” Probity reassured her, face blooming wide and hopeful. “I have volunteers—muses. Oh, sis, we can do this. We can do this.”
Probity made a delighted sound and launched herself off the desk. Brevity barely had time to pocket the vial and plant a smile before the hug. It felt warm. It felt sincere. It felt hollow.
They could do this. A quiet voice in the back of Brevity’s mind just worried what, exactly, they would have done.
18
HERO
Stories are as old as us. No one culture holds claim to the creation of the first stories. The origin of stories has often been attributed to something divine—gods, the Fates. The Greeks and their muses, though, that’s something more fickle. Muses aren’t divine, or necessarily benevolent. Their purpose, their gods, are the stories. Anything is justifiable, anything is expendable, in service to that.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1977 CE
THEY FOUND IAMBE LOUNGING with a lyre one hallway over from the stairs that led to the library. She plucked at the strings less like she was playing music and more like they’d