Brevity started to shake her head. “But it wasn’t—”
“But even a bad librarian can’t destroy stories. They’re made of stronger stuff than that.” The smile on Probity’s lips was brief before dropping into a darker expression. “Only the living can kill a story. Humans do it every day.”
The animosity in Probity’s soft voice was a velvet razor, the threat of which was impossible to miss. A cutting change, swift and harsh as a rockfall, came across her expression. But Brevity was distracted by what else she was saying. “You’re saying the damsels—the unwritten books—are still alive.”
Probity shook her head. “‘Alive’ is . . . a funny way to put it. No, the books are destroyed and gone, but the stories . . . the potential . . . that’s preserved in the ink. And that’s the powerful part.”
Claire had said something similar, and the way the ink had swarmed and fluxed on the log page certainly seemed like a living thing. Brevity’s gaze strayed to where the logbook rested, closed and inert on the massive librarian’s desk. Brevity still thought of it as Claire’s desk. “We could bring them back?”
“I thought that small, too, at first,” Probity whispered, drawing Brevity’s attention back. She was shaking her head with some kind of deep empathy. “We’re taught to think that small. But seeing the ink work the wonders it did . . . that it exists is a miracle. It’s a sign. You have the Library now—and the support of the Muse Corps. Think about it, sis! We can do more than just restore the way things were.”
We. Being a “we” with the muses again; longing for that warred with the caution still echoing in Brevity’s head. “Like what?”
Probity’s bottom lip worried and caught between her teeth, seeming to hesitate over her words. She took a breath. “New books, fresh books. We would replace what the Library lost and more.” There was a hopeful, sunrise kind of light in Probity’s gray eyes, like her entire face was blooming. It brightened her, brought to mind old games and pranks they’d played, and made Brevity smile.
“Like, new stories? Brand-new? How could that be possible? Which humans—”
“It’s possible.” Probity clutched her hands in front of her, almost as if she were still that little sister. Sisters, sharing a secret daydream. “New stories, recovered stories. Who knows what else? But first we need a sample of the ink to experiment.”
That snapped over Brevity like a flinch of frost. She straightened. “No more experiments. Claire and I already tried. You saw what happened. It rejected the paper straight out.”
Probity thought about that for a moment, growing solemn and certain. “Then next time we don’t try paper.”
There were so many options, Brevity had trouble deciding which part of that sentence alarmed her more. As she passed Probity’s shoulder, she caught a glancing wisp of emerald and periwinkle near the Library doors. That was a color combination she’d recognize anywhere. “Oh, Hero! Over here.”
A moment later, the man himself appeared in the doorway. His step hesitated as he noticed Probity, but he continued over to them with a shake of his head. “I don’t know how you always hear me coming.”
His book might have rejected him, but he still streamed colors like any unwritten book in her eyes. Brevity chewed on the grin that threatened. “Just a muse thing, I guess.” She turned her head to share her amusement with Probity, but a change had come over the younger muse. The excited look she’d had while explaining her dream to Brevity, the soft way she’d talked about the plight of stories, had turned pitying with the presence of one. Probity’s eyes lingered on Hero as he approached, and she tensed from what Brevity could only guess were nerves.
“Everything all right downstairs?” Brevity asked lightly.
“Claire has the Watcher locking up artifacts,” Hero said with a brief disapproving purse of his lips.
“Don’t be afraid. She can’t touch you anymore,” Probity reassured him a little too intensely. Hero gave her an odd look.
“Ah . . . yes. The monster is dead. I can finally sleep soundly.” Probity didn’t appear to catch the droll twist of Hero’s reply. She’d never been adept at sarcasm. Brevity quietly winced inside. Hero shrugged. “I suppose locking things up is what a librarian is best at.”
“She is not the librarian,” Probity said before Brevity could answer. She pinned Hero with a pitying look. “As a book you know that.”
“Do I? Thank you for the reminder. But as assistant librarian,” Hero said through a sharp-toothed smile, “I know how closely the Unwritten Wing and the Arcane Wing collaborate.”
“Tea, Hero?” Brevity interrupted, before Hero could further sharpen his tongue on Probity’s misplaced pity. She snatched the pot Probity had brewed off the stand. “Have some tea, Prob.”
“No, thank you,” Hero said while Probity accepted a cup. He gave Brevity a cautious glance. “I thought I’d spend some time in the stacks. Inventory, see if there’s anything the damsels need.”
Brevity wasn’t sure which was more suspect: Hero volunteering for inventory or Hero concerned for the damsels. She was not stupid, but it was obvious Hero wanted an excuse to avoid Brevity and her guest for a while.
She nodded assent and pointed to the cart loaded with books. “Those go back to the children’s fantasy section, please.”
Hero approached the cart, glanced at a title, and made a face. “Imaginary-friend stories. Why are these even books? I hate it when they wake up.”
“That’s why we shelve them quietly.”
Hero sniffed and kicked the cart ahead of him, in the direction of the stacks. “As you say. You’re the boss.” It never sounded the same when he said it. Less like a title and more like a reminder of what she wasn’t and never would be. Had it been the same for Claire?
“He’s forgotten his book,” Probity said contemplatively
