The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,86

her arms. “So, what do you want?”

“Want?” Hero’s theatrics were so familiar that when he put a hand to his chest, a disconcerting warmth rose through Claire’s. “Perhaps this is simply a social call to express gratitude.”

“If you thanked me every time I stitched you or your book up, I’d never be rid of you.”

“Said as if you wouldn’t miss me terribly.”

An answering smile pulled at Claire’s mouth, though she stifled it. A smug expression told her Hero had picked it up anyway. “Said as a hypothetical because yet again here you are. But not to thank me.”

Hero, reliably, appeared to change the subject. His gaze drifted to the thin cotton gloves on Claire’s hands. A shadowy wash of black and a thin line of blue were just visible below her right elbow. “I didn’t have time to ask earlier. How is it holding up?”

Claire followed his gaze, and the back of her knuckles itched. She tugged at the long cuff of her glove carefully until the stain was covered. “Unremarkable, if you’d believe it. A tight feeling, now and then, like the skin is chapped, but nothing that warrants complaint.”

Nothing physical, she silently amended. She did not mention the whispers, the dream of Beatrice, the filter of colors that filled every shadow. The cold slowly settling into her stained skin went unsaid. She definitely didn’t mention the phantom visit from the every-person. If Hero was allowed to play at health, then so was Claire. It only seemed fair.

“Fascinating.” Hero hummed to himself as he craned over the table as if Claire’s hand was some kind of intriguing bug. But a small nit of worry was a strange fit between his brows. “It’s growing, though.”

“Is it? It must be too slow to even notice,” Claire evaded, not quite meeting Hero’s eyes. What Walter had said—or not wanted to say—was not reassuring. But there was no reason to worry the rest of them with fates that might or might not be inevitable. “I haven’t noticed a change. No cause for concern.”

“Is that so.” Hero’s eyes narrowed, and if he noticed how the thick blue-gold line around her arm had thinned from a wide band to a thin ribbon, he didn’t say so. “It’s an interesting experiment, at least—and I’ve come with a comparison study.”

He was attempting to sound aloof but hadn’t quite contained the way his fingers drummed on top of the table nervously as he did it. Claire’s stomach swooped at the proposal of another experiment, but it was obvious he was about to propose something important. “Really?” Claire put away her book and crossed her arms. “Well then, do continue, scholar Hero.”

“Simple. Considering how little we know about this ink, comparisons are in order.”

Claire rubbed her temple. “I’ve already tested the ink thoroughly, Hero.”

“Not compare the ink—compare the material. It certainly had an enthusiastic reaction before. So it only makes sense that we should try this mystery substance against as many materials as possible to discern its nature.”

“To discern its nature,” Claire repeated, amused. It wasn’t often that Hero tried to cover up his own concerns with anything other than grand arrogance. It was endearing, if endearment could be highly suspicious. “We’ve already tried it against paper and, inadvertently I’ll admit, librarian skin. What else do you propose?”

“My book. Try the ink on my book,” Hero said. “See if it can do what my own ink can’t.”

“What?” Claire recoiled, and all her humor fled her. “Have you taken leave of your senses? You saw what the ink does to a book!”

“To a logbook. An artifact solely of the Library, not an unwritten book that was meant to be made real.”

“I don’t see how that makes a difference.”

“And I don’t see how we have the time to debate it!” Hero had dropped his intellectual air. He braced his arms over the table as if it was all that held him up. “I think it makes all the difference in the world. What is an unwritten book, Claire? What’s it made of? Where’s it come from? Where do I come from?”

“What a silly question. That’s—” Claire’s mouth started working before she could quite come up with an answer. He’d come to her for answers. Her insides churned. “Well, stories come from their authors, of course—”

“It’s more than that,” Hero interrupted, pushing away from the table. He raked a vicious hand through his hair. “I admit it; I took this recent investigation as an excuse to get out of the Library, but