Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,89

matronics are here to lift the polymaths up to the higher shelves. There’s an indent in their backs well-suited for stepping on, and mortal-sized metal handles on their shoulders. The carved shelves turn into perfectly spaced footholds for the matronics to clamber effortlessly up, the polymaths pointing towards the book they require. That’s why the polymaths don’t need ladders. They’ve invented walking ladders. Walking ladders that have no eyes, but can still see. Walking ladders that aren’t flesh, but still have preferences.

And Fione just won’t stop staring.

“Fione,” I murmur to her. “Maybe don’t.”

The archduchess barely spares a glance at me, but I reach for her elbow carefully, trying to gently remind her of what we’re here to do. Thankfully, we don’t have much more time to dwell on the disturbing matronics, as the woman leads us away from the main library ward and into a thin-cut hall cleaving into the volcanic rock with many doors on either side. Once we’re out of sight of the matronics and their bulk, Fione seems to regain herself, the sparkle in her eyes hardening to determination once more as she walks.

After what feels like an unending trek down a repeating infinity, the woman finally stops in front of a specific door and motions for us to go inside. We squeeze in tentatively, the room barely big enough to accommodate a small polished table with four chairs.

“Please wait here.” The woman makes a bow. “I will return with the polymath of relevancy in a moment.”

“The polymath?” Lucien’s brow wrinkles. “We came here for books, for matrices. We need a codex to translate—”

Fione’s hand on his arm stops him cold. He looks down at her, but her gaze never wavers, and he finally gets the message and sits back down. The woman bows slightly and leaves, the heavy door clunking behind her. When she’s gone, Malachite props his muddy boots up on the table.

“So, good parts,” he starts. “They haven’t killed us thus far.”

“Bad parts,” I counter. “They’re making metal Heartless, essentially.”

“Not Heartless,” Fione argues. “Not really. It’s not as if they’re controlling something that was already alive. They made those matronics, from ore to metal to the legs and every other part of it. They’ve created it.”

“Like gods,” Lucien murmurs, and those two words ring powerful enough to make us all go silent.

The little room has a slot for a window, the bright sunlight squaring through no bigger than a peg. I stand on my tiptoes to see out of it, and feel a support underneath me as Lucien picks me up by the waist with his broad hands and lifts.

He smirks up at me. “Is that any better?”

“A little.” I feign disinterest, peering through the window. Outside is a lush expanse of vivid green, the sweltering humidity of the outside air so different from the coldness of the Archives—they must keep it cool to preserve the books. We’re closer to the meridian here, and so while the ocean is still relatively cool, the land is a different story. Palms and tallferns reach for the sun, piercing blue and purple and gold blossoms bursting from every crook of every shadowed canopy. Vines slick with viscous pink sap creep over bark, over the forest floor, over any rock they can find. It’s a different forest than I’m used to compared to the chilly pines and old moss of Cavanos—more alive, more active.

And I too am more active, considering my beloved’s arms are securely around my waist and his face perhaps the closest to my body it’s ever been. I motion for him to put me down and turn to him with a pout.

“Who taught you to approach ladies in such a brazen manner?” I look over at Malachite. “Was it you?”

“Oh, c’mon.” The beneather rolls his eyes. “Like Luc ever takes my advice.”

“I take it sometimes,” the prince argues lightly. “When it’s relevant. Which is, well…never.”

Malachite throws his hand up. “My point exactly.”

Something about the moment sobers us. Maybe it’s the black rock fortress of our tiny room, or maybe it’s the height of the view outside the minuscule window. Whatever it is, it makes Lucien’s dark gaze wilt on the edges as he looks at me.

“I’ll be there with you. Sending magic. So. If they try to hurt you—”

“I’m sure some of it will hurt,” I cut him off. “About as badly as a scraped knee. They’re dusty old librarians, for Old God’s sake.”

“If anything, it will be a thorough cataloguing,” Fione adds, leafing through