“And I was a rebellion leader and a king, facts that did no one a flick of good when magic ink we don’t understand decided to start eating our Arcanist.” That sentence had lost steam somewhere in the middle, and rather than feeling like a vicious stab, it just left Hero with a queasy feeling of worry. It was an unnatural and unwelcome sensation. Another thing to blame Claire for, when she woke up.
If there was a sport he had trained for, it was guilt bearing. Rami heaved a sigh, proving he was already the champion. “You’re right, for once.” He leaned forward, intent. “So, what is it?”
Hero choked on his tea. “What is what?”
“The ink.” Rami’s brows created great trenches of concern above his silver eyes. It was unnerving when they focused entirely on you. “The muse seemed to think it was ink. Ink is the thing of books. So how does it work . . . ?”
Surely Hero must have the answers. What kind of book didn’t know what he was made of, after all? Perhaps it was like other things he knew without knowing: the shape of a story, the wrongness of his book without him, the shiver a book had when it was close to waking up a character. He thought about the ink and reached for that well of intuition that always spouted up, from nowhere, to catch him where he fell short.
Nothing caught this particular free fall. He knew nothing. He knew nothing at all. The idea that a story survived in the ink was no more or less ridiculous than anything else he’d suffered, but it stung somehow. He should know. What kind of character was he? Hero covered the dip in his stomach with a scoff and drained the last of his tea in one swig. “It’s a ridiculous question. Shall I ask you how your feathers work?”
Rami’s mood lightened to something approaching earnest interest. “Celestial dynamics is straightforward to understand, really. If you compare it to the aerodynamics of earth-born birds—”
“Please stop talking.” Hero buried his face in his hands. Everyone told him to do the same often enough: stop talking. This was a punishment, wasn’t it? Was he being punished? Taunted by an ignorant angelic jock and a pool of black liquid potential that should have shown him a reflection where he only saw a question mark? It was wicked and devious, even for Hell.
Hero considered it a minor miracle, then, when Brevity burst out of the gloom of the stacks like an ambitious sunrise, trailed by a curious gaggle of muses and—the knot in Hero’s chest eased a little—a drawn-looking Claire. Ink-stained, hunted-looking, but awake.
“Claire’s okay, I’m okay, et cetera and so on—” Brevity impatiently headed off their questions. “We got an idea. A really awful idea, but, well— Rami, Hero, on your feet.”
4
CLAIRE
Repaired another cover today. The leather had begun to wear along the rail line. I wonder why the books choose leather. It’s not as if there are hell-cows for hide, are there? (Are there?) They could be clapboard- or linen-covered hardbacks or—saints forbid—paperback. But it’s leather, tanned leather.
An early method of preparing leather for book covers was to cure it covered in wet tea leaves and bark—tanning comes from the word “tannins.” Tea and words have always been steeped together, down to the bones. I preferred coffee when I was alive, but Claire drinks this stuff by the pot: to refresh, to fortify, she says. Maybe the English knew something about the Library after all. We’re preserving ourselves from the inside, sip by sip.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1987 CE
REGAINING CONSCIOUSNESS WAS A scandal. Claire did not so much wake up as fling herself from one awareness to another. She jolted upright and was only stopped from falling over again by a pair of gentle hands. Fire thudded from her head and dribbled through every joint. It was as if every ache and pain of normal aging Claire had been spared for the last thirty years had come home to roost. “Oh, hellfire and harpies.” She rubbed her wrists tenderly. One was bandaged; that was to be expected. “Someone get me a hot compress and half a bottle of paracetamol.”
Claire knew Hell had no such thing. She had honestly expected Brevity and a clatter of teacups, not a weary sigh and a low voice full of amusement.
“If only I could.”
Claire abruptly forgot about her joint pain. The hold on her shoulders was the only thing that kept her reclined on the couch. The cushions beneath her had a familiar feel, and Claire’s careening mind distantly placed it as a piece of Library furniture. Which did not mesh with the sight of Beatrice perched on the edge looking wary as a feral cat.
“Beatrice.” Claire struggled not to reel again. “What— You are in Malta. You can’t—”
“I really can’t,” Beatrice agreed amiably. Claire’s unwritten character wore the same rumpled suit vest she’d had on when Claire had seen her last in Malta, sans the dirt and blood. Beatrice appeared perfectly recovered from the adventure that had left her on Earth, hair swept in that careless crop of curls that looked soft enough to make Claire’s fingers ache again. There was a smudged look about her, an air Claire couldn’t quite place, though she tried. Beatrice tucked the blanket back around Claire’s lap while simultaneously giving her the chance to gawk.
“You can’t—” Claire repeated, finally taking in her surroundings. They were in the damsel suite, which showed signs of swift evacuation. Open books and half-eaten nibbles were strewn across the tables, and on the end table nearest her, steam still wafted faintly from an overbrewed cup of tea. Claire rescued the strainer on impulse, though the tea had obviously gone bitter. She stuck her finger in her mouth, allowing the acidic bite of the tannins to try to clear her head.
“I was arguing
