. . . how?”
“The divine’s attention is turned . . . elsewhere. Not here.” A flicker of pain appeared on Uriel’s angelic features, quickly schooled away.
Ramiel thought the Creator must have grown distant indeed to withdraw even from Uriel. She was the Light, where he had once been the Thunder. At times, she’d even served as the Face of God. The only one perhaps closer to the divine was Metatron. If their Creator was drifting beyond even Uriel’s counsel, much must have changed in Heaven since Rami left.
Yet nothing had changed for the Host, not that he could see. The line of souls processed and progressed smoothly. Every angel he encountered at the Gates was as they always were: confident, golden, glowing with the righteous or, at the very least, the self-righteous. That kind of confidence was inspired only by true leaders. Like Uriel.
The realization hit Ramiel all at once. “You’ve been running things in Her absence.”
Uriel’s lips thinned. “Not alone. And only as the divine would have willed it.”
“Ruling a realm. That’s quite the promotion, Uriel.”
“It’s my duty. Our duty. The other archangels agree.” Uriel averted her gaze. “Until the return. The Creator wouldn’t abandon us entirely.”
“I see.” Temporary absence was frightening in itself. But Rami detected the rising tension in Uriel’s shoulders and kept his voice neutral. “And you think this scrap holds enough power to draw the Creator back?”
“Not alone. But if it has a complete book of power on Earth equal to it . . . such a threat couldn’t be ignored. The Creator would have to return. We would no longer be—” Uriel rose from her seat. “Am I to assume from your skepticism that you have no interest in my offer?”
“You’re saying if I do this, I will be allowed back. Heaven. Does that mean forgiven?”
“That is up to the Creator, upon return. I can only promise you will be allowed past the Gates.” Her voice took on a softer note. “It’s your chance to prove your worth. Join us. You could come home, Ramiel.”
Home. The word stuttered in his chest and traveled down his arms. Rami clenched his hands at his side. To set foot in the land he hadn’t seen since the Earth was new. Only grasped in faded dreams during his time in the dark.
But it wasn’t just the prospect of returning that drew him. It was not the memory of floating spires and air heavy with music. It was the prospect of stopping. Of truly belonging somewhere again. It was the idea of slowing his steps and turning his eyes to a place that saw him, that recognized him, that claimed him. It was that concept, the cessation of motion, that drove his words.
“I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.” Uriel graced him with a rare smile. “You’ll want to start with Avery’s life, of course. I’ve got the brief prepared.”
4
LETO
It’s uncertain what precise conditions precipitate a book’s waking up and becoming a character. Some restless characters must be soothed back into their bindings once a decade; others may not stir for several centuries. Some wake when disturbed with attention; others fidget with neglect. Some ache to be told; others appear to want to escape their own narrative. Or improvise upon it.
The only certainty is a book is most at risk while its author is alive. Like any good story, unwritten books have the capacity for great healing and great hurts. We do not act out of cruelty. The safest place for an unwritten book to be—for both it and its author—is sleeping in the Library, dreaming what stories it will tell.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1944 CE
THE SLAP TURNED LETO’S chin. He took a step back from where they stood near the counter of the coffee shop, but Brevity advanced on him, hands on her hips. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I, uh . . .” Leto twisted, meeting pair after pair of blandly curious eyes. They had the attention of the entire shop, whether out of sympathy or annoyance. Claire positioned herself discreetly at the far wall, near the book’s table. The hero, as Claire had called him, and his companion were entirely focused on Brevity’s display. “You found out . . . ?”
He had just enough warning to flinch before another open hand aimed for his shoulder. Brevity burst into a very believable font of tears. The former muse had mastered the art of crying prettily, and Leto heard sympathetic murmurs drift among the coffee shop’s patrons.
He reached out to pat