The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,64
her body,” Hero said dismissively.
Brevity’s smile pulled tight. “It’s a mite more complicated than that.”
Understatement was something she’d learned from Claire. Brevity remembered cold tension, ashen skin, orders simmering with resentment, secrets tucked in the shadow of her eyes. The questions and library shelves Claire avoided. Muses were naturally drawn to humans, but Claire was an unwritten author. Brevity still caught her, now and then, staring at the inspiration on her skin, thoughts locked and far away.
Muses loved humans, authors doubly so, but the relationship with authors was always more complicated. Brevity had broken through Claire’s hostility, in the end, with aggressive friendliness. Humans couldn’t see like muses—they were practically blind, relying only on what things looked like on the outside. So Brevity had shaped her outside to what Claire needed. A cheerful teenage girl in need of guidance. Her apparent age, her personality, the way she talked. Muses had a knack for understanding what an author needed.
Claire had needed a friend. Maybe Claire still did.
“Give her time. She’ll warm up to ya. You’ll see,” Brevity insisted, and put her full force of will into believing it.
“Mmm, no doubt you’ll be eating out of the palm of her hand in time,” Andras said. “Characters are fools for authors.”
“She’s not my author.” Hero sounded positively horrified by the idea. “Your whole library can burn for all I care.”
Instead of taking offense, Andras smiled so that it reached his eyes for the first time. “You are such an interesting hero, aren’t you?”
Hero came to an unnatural stillness. Before Brevity could figure out a new distraction, the door to Bjorn’s office boomed open.
Claire slunk through at a simmer, shaking her head at a parchment in her hands. Bjorn followed, and made an injured sound when Claire rolled up the paper and slapped it at him. “Well, this complicates things.”
“We know where the codex pages are, then?” Leto asked.
“Bjorn’s trick doesn’t pinpoint a location, even with the paper shaving he has generously titled a calling card.” Claire pointed to the carefully folded map in Bjorn’s hands. “We can track it as far as an island in the Mediterranean. My educated guess would be Malta. We’ll have to hope that the so-called song is clearer when we get there.”
“You’ll hear it. If you clear your head of other books.” Bjorn unfolded the map and Claire leaned over his arm as they made notations.
Brevity took the chance to assess Claire. Her skin was waxy, shadows smudging her eyes and lips pressed thin. A pang of guilt washed over her, and she wondered if Bjorn’s method would have been easier if she’d accompanied her. There’d been a moment, as they prepared to leave, when Bjorn had cast a silent glance at her inspiration gilt, a question in his eyes. Claire could leave behind her books, and Brevity would follow her anywhere. But there were things Brevity could not leave behind. Blue lines itched and twined against the soft skin of her wrist.
“The bigger question,” Claire said after they were done, “is how to get there. I suspect ravens don’t work both ways?”
“Ravens travel the realms freely, but only go to Midgard on Odin’s word. If you think the ways of proving yourself to Valhalla are tedious, you don’t want to try to seek the All-father’s blessing.”
“Fantastic,” Claire muttered. “I assume you’re about to suggest an alternative.”
Bjorn grinned. “There’s always the boat.”
Claire rumpled her braids wearily. “Trust Vikings not to leave a simple road in and out of their own paradise.”
“Where would the fun be in that?”
“Fun is not the primary—”
Hero cleared his throat and gestured. “Pardon the interruption of what I’m sure is about to be a fascinatingly dry debate, but you may wish to continue this on the way out.” The mead-soaked chatter had shifted in the hall. Between bobbing heads and walls of armor, the two angels at the door had begun to argue. The tall woman in white—Uriel, Claire had said—turned abruptly and began to shove through the crowd. Her progress was hampered by the drum pit, but her gaze hunted through the crowd before locking on them.
“I don’t think she wants a drink,” Brevity murmured.
“So much for keeping the peace and slipping out quietly.” Claire turned to Bjorn. “I assume there’s another exit?”
“Valhalla hosts a door to each site of battle,” Bjorn said grandly before adding, “and a couple to a nice picnicking spot or two.” He shoved open the door to his quarters. “This way.”