5
BREVITY
I’ve had a few weeks to get used to it now: being dead. Dead, and a librarian at that. Not even death stops the world from expecting a woman to take care of things. At least it’s not eternity at the cook fire.
There was supposed to be another, here in the Library. I’ve gleaned that much, from what the demons have said. The Arcanist is a glum living statue. She doesn’t like me much, but it appears she has as much say in the matter as I do. She says there was a librarian before—an experienced one who would have trained me, taught me all the secrets of this place. She’s gone. Exiled? Doubly dead? Deposed? I’m not certain, only that everyone is terribly mute as to why.
The Arcanist, Revka, says I’ll just have to pick up the basics. As much as she doesn’t like me, there’s a deep sadness in her, stone heart and all. I’d like to say I was kind enough not to ask, but I’m not—I was told off for my troubles.
They say this is supposed to be a library, a salon of learned words. But it doesn’t feel like a library. It feels like a tomb.
Librarian Madiha al-Fihri, 602 CE
RAMI AND HERO HAD, in fact, objected to their plan.
They’d objected—loudly, in Hero’s case—and expressed their concerns—gravely, in Rami’s case—and then Claire and Brevity had done, as always, what they thought was best. It was almost like working together again. Almost.
The pond of ink had not moved since they left it. It lapped silently against the broken boards at the same level it had been before. Normal liquid might have evaporated, or sunk into porous wood and whatever the bedrock of Hell was made of. Instead, the surface lay flush with the broken wood floorboards, black against beech. Claire allowed Brevity to handle the gloves, tongs, and vial as a small acquiescence to Rami’s demands. The unease in Claire’s eyes was enough to convince Brevity this was no time for indulging muse curiosity—she came only close enough to the edge of the liquid as was necessary to stopper a vial full. The rubber cork popped on the top, and that was that.
The trip back to the Unwritten Wing was quick and amiable. Brevity let Claire carry the sample, once the vial had been scrupulously wiped and she was certain every smidge of ink was contained. Perhaps the mystery in the bottle would repair some of the unspoken rift that had divided Claire from her since the coup. Perhaps this was all that was needed—a common mystery, a common task. Brevity entertained that hope with a growing certainty.
The liquid in the vial bobbled. That’s how Brevity knew that Claire had hesitated a step—just a fraction of a step—just as they turned the corner and the Unwritten Wing doors came into view.
“Claire?” Brevity asked when she didn’t say anything.
“It’s nothing. No—sorry.” Claire fiddled with the dangerous sample in her hand as she apologized. Both actions being wildly uncharacteristic, enough that Brevity stopped in her tracks. Claire shook her head dismissively. “I saw it before; I just keep forgetting. . . . Thirty years is a lot to unlearn.”
Brevity glanced uncertainly to the doors, and her stomach did a flip as pieces fell into place. Understanding doused the warm feeling in her chest. The Unwritten Wing had changed to suit its new librarian, just as the Arcane Wing had accommodated Claire. To Brevity, it’d felt like the Library’s small way of welcoming her. The doors were a soft ruddy color that reminded Brevity of sunsets, accented by the crisp silver in the handles. Strings of faerie lights just inside the door washed the entrance in a gentle kind of glow.
But Brevity could see it now through Claire’s eyes, and that empathy threw it all into sharp, alien relief. The changes Brevity had made to the Unwritten Wing no longer felt cheery—they felt garish. Cherry-stained wood a shade too red and bright, faerie lights illuminating the aisles cheap instead of cozy. A plastic imitation of the distinguished Library that Claire had known. Brevity’s heart tilted and fell between her ribs. She kept her face tilted down as she hurried across the lobby to her desk.
“Just a minute . . .” There was one thing that didn’t change along with the Library, and maybe that’d smooth over the knot of awkwardness forming in Brevity’s chest. She rifled around in the drawer until she came up with a thick, battered-looking book.
The Librarian’s Log had a blotchy leather cover the precise color of mistakes—ink smudges and the shadow of grubby fingerprints—with enough scuffs and scars that left the surface feeling more like bark than cured leather. It wasn’t the largest book in the Library, but it still took Brevity both hands to wrestle it out and drop it onto the blotter with a solid whump that echoed to the high ceilings.
“Open it up, if you would.” Claire carefully found an empty teacup to balance the vial upright in. Brevity wasn’t as tidy about her desk as Claire. Clutter was conducive to thinking. At least that’s what she told Hero when he got on her about it.
Brevity flipped open the log, not bothering to be precise. The logbook always flopped open to the necessary page. Sometimes, your definition of “necessary” didn’t line up with the log’s, but Brevity had decided long ago that trusting the book was part of a librarian’s job too. Letting books take you where they might—that was one part of the Library’s magic. The other part was the centuries of log entries from past Unwritten Wing librarians, all in perfectly readable script, no matter the age or the originating language, never in reliable order, but also never an end to empty pages, no matter how much you
