“I . . .” Brevity finally dragged her gaze away from the ceiling. There was no expectation in Rami’s serious face, just presence. Sometimes, simply being here was all the truth needed. Brevity nodded. “I’ll remember that. Not now, but . . . All the sacrifices, I’m not sure it mattered. What did it do but prolong things? Even the inspiration I had.” She made a vague gesture without looking at her arm again. “I gave it up, and now it’s back, and something else.”
Saying it almost made it worse. It was easier to imagine the black slivers racing up her forearm as something new, foreign. A bezoar to absorb the poison of the ink. Thinking of it too much made Brevity queasy, but of course, that was why Rami was there.
“Just as well. Muses can’t absorb humanity. That’s why the ink overwrote your companions instead.”
There was compassion in Rami’s voice, but an unflinching kind. Determined to see this through. Brevity rubbed her eyes and tried not to imagine she could see contorted black figures on the insides of her eyelids. “At least Claire was able to reverse Verve in the end.”
“I wish I could have done more.” Rami shook his head. “I have no idea how Claire survived that. There were too many, even for me. I could only release the bits of souls that were ready to let go.”
“Where do they go when they ‘let go’?” Brevity was fighting the urge to look back at the stacks, see if the books were listening. “If books and humans are made of the same soul stuff, where does a released book go? Did they all really just stay in the Dust Wing? Or go to Heaven? To their authors? Not all of them were dead yet.”
“I’m not wise enough to say. Perhaps where all stories go when they end. Claire might know.”
“Claire doesn’t know.” Saying it aloud felt like a betrayal, but it was true. She saw it the moment guilt crashed down across Claire’s face at the realization. She’d been making amends for her harsh treatment of characters like Hero, but realizing she’d been the jailer of unwilling souls . . .
But she hadn’t known, and as a result Brevity hadn’t known. Claire could be forgiven because of her lack of education—her mentor hadn’t shared everything in time—but Brevity? Brevity was a muse. She had ferried story stuff to and from humanity for decades. How could she not have realized what she was carrying?
Stories were made of soul stuff, fragmented and spurred from their human authors. Humans could create because they could birth little pieces of their souls to do it. Books existed in the afterlife, because the afterlife was a place of immutable things, including souls.
“This story’s not over, is it?” She hadn’t intended it to come out as a whisper, but the Library seemed to swallow up her words like a hollow prophecy. She cringed and finally risked a glance at Rami.
The Watcher angel always looked tired, shabby and rubbed thin around the edges, like an old worry stone. His brow knit, then smoothed. Little quakes of thought. “There’s got to be a reason the Library has kept the nature of stories secret for so long. If the Library contains fragments of souls, it is always going to be at risk of being used by its host realm.”
“Andras knew.” The realization hit Brevity hard, making her pulse race. His sharp teeth and mocking mask of a gentleman’s face. The smothering smell of burning books. “Andras knew; he knew the Library could be used. That’s why he wanted it.”
“He might have suspected, putting the pieces together like we did.” Rami considered for a brief moment before appearing to shrug off the memory of the demon as violently as he deserved. “No secret lasts forever, not in the afterlife. We should prepare for what will come when the nature of books is a known fact.”
“Great. More demons.”
“Not just demons,” Rami said. “Souls are the weave of all the realms. I don’t think any host realm could withstand the temptation of a library right at their doorstep.”
Not just the Unwritten Wing, the Library. Brevity thought of Bjorn, his cozy clutter of scrolls and sagas in Valhalla. Of the stately poems of Duat. The longing letters of Elysium. The mad dead of the Dust Wing. The dull ache of Brevity’s self-pity burned abruptly away to make room for the holy terror of it all. “The entire Library’s in danger.”
Her breath was already coming fast, but Rami’s hand was on her shoulder like an anchor. He handed her the teacup she’d forgotten. The strawberry tea had long gone cold, but a gulp of it was astringent enough to force her thoughts in line. “Not if we make our own plans.”
“Everything’s changed.” Brevity was already shaking her head. “We’ve all changed. Look at us! I’m infected, Claire’s haunted, Hero . . . Who knows what Hero is!” She’d bitten her nails; when had she bitten her nails? Brevity dug her hands into her hair instead. “Verve is out there, and now Probity has got to know too. What are we doing?”
The silence rattled around Brevity’s head, chasing her already racing thoughts. Rami’s hand came away from her shoulder. When she looked up, he had his arms crossed. It made the feathers on his coat fluff up in a vaguely intimidating gesture. “You’re changing. That’s what happens.”
“In stories?” Brevity finished weakly.
“In life.” Rami looked flummoxed for a moment. “Almighty heavens. I’m not a book, or a writer, or a muse. I’ve lived too long to see everything as a metaphor for a story, like the rest of you do. I don’t think in plot arcs or theatrical roles. Life—it goes on. Change happens. Secrets get out. Challenges appear. Decisions are forced. Whether we’re ready for them or not.”
“I vote not,” Brevity said into her lap.
“Then you will get ready. You are
