Rami followed and began to wrestle with the fear that now was a poor time to leave the mortal woman alone with her thoughts. “Claire?”
Claire looked up from the prodigious stack of books with which she had fortified her desk. For all Andras’s duplicity, he’d kept exacting notes on every artifact in the wing, which Claire had only begun to sift through. “Things?” she said, as if no time had passed. “You’ve run across something like the ink before?”
“No,” Ramiel said truthfully. “Whatever this is, it’s unique to the Library.”
“Then what do you hope to find that you can’t share with me?”
“We intend to make discreet inquiries into the other libraries.” Ramiel saw no reason to lie. Which was good because he had been told, repeatedly, that he was terrible at it. He had accepted it as a flaw of being burdened with a divine nature in Hell.
“And the last time I left the realm it was a minor scandal,” Claire said with the grace of an understatement.
Rami smiled. “It was a minor scandal on our end too.”
“Everything is a scandal to Heaven.” On another’s lips, that word might have made Rami flinch, but Claire had a clear-eyed way of looking at him that steadied him. Contentment, to be here of all places, was a radical novelty in Rami’s life. Claire had no idea of the miracle that was. Instead she made a sour face, which was so familiar it dispersed Rami’s previous concerns. “I have no idea how paradise realms can even get anything done with that much inefficiency.”
“I believe it’s viewed as ethics.”
“Inefficiency.” Claire straightened the books in front of her before a thought occurred to her with a sharp glance. “You said ‘we.’” She squinted. “Hero’s dragging you along.”
“For the sake of my dignity, let us say it’s more of a strategic escort.” Ramiel didn’t think he made a face, but Claire snorted a withering kind of amusement. At least it served to center her. Her face took on a more present kind of focus. She gestured, and Rami handed her the teapot to refill her empty cup; then she offered him a clean one. The air filled with the metallic drift of Darjeeling—perhaps with a Ceylon blend? Rami had never developed the taste for it, but he knew his teas now, evidently. Claire’s personality was of such force that education on such things came with her acquaintance. “From what I understand of his logic, it is sound. I believe his intentions are in earnest.”
“And has he gotten permission from Brev for these earnest intentions?”
“Not in so many words,” Ramiel admitted. The teacup was pleasantly warm against the calluses on his palms. He took a tentative sip—yes, still tasted like old water to him—while he fought the ridiculous urge to defend Hero. “He could have run before now, if that was his intent.”
“True.” Claire’s mouth executed a brittle twist that wasn’t entirely without fondness. “If I was still librarian, I’d be concerned.”
“And as the Arcanist?”
“I’m recreationally skeptical,” Claire admitted behind the rim of her teacup. “Be careful. Hero isn’t nearly as hard as he plays at being.”
Rami sighed. “No, he’s quite a bit sharper.”
“He grows on you. Like a barnacle.”
“A lesion,” Rami suggested helpfully.
The laugh surprised Claire enough that it diverted into a cough. Once she had regained her composure, she set her tea down. Her expression turned thoughtful as she appeared to search his face for insight. “I’ve grown to care about him, nonetheless.”
Rami looked down into his mostly full cup. It would not be very angelic to scuff his shoes, no matter how much the dip in his stomach told him to. “I know.”
Porcelain on wood clicked as Claire shuffled her undrunk tea aside to select a book from the stack. A patently false gesture, as Rami knew Claire never kept her tea on a reading surface for fear of spilling it. It distracted him from her next words. “Just as I care about you.”
Rami startled. “I beg your pardon?”
He had no idea what his face was doing in that moment—Claire had a way of dipping around his guard. But whatever Claire saw made her lips quirk. She nodded smugly to herself. “All right. You may have it.”
It wasn’t proper. The thousands of years of etiquette Ramiel had on Claire escaped him in a confused noise.
“My pardon, I mean. For whatever foolishness you and Hero are about to get up to.” Claire settled back into her chair, flipping through the initial pages of her book without reading them. “In return, I want both of you to come back. No heroics, and I expect you to ensure that you present yourselves again in one piece. Both of you.”
Rami felt like he was missing an important undercurrent of the conversation. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Humans were always evolving new ways of not saying what they meant. He had thought he knew most of them, until he met Claire. “Ma’am? I mean, Claire—are you feeling—”
“You’re always so straightforward, Ramiel.” Claire’s smile was soft with exhaustion and, perhaps, fondness. “It makes it easier to return the favor. Let’s just say this most recent threat has left me feeling inconveniently impulsive and tired of my own games. It has left me irresponsibly open to considering what I want.” Claire slumped back into her chair. Two black fingers toyed with the tattered edge of a page. It drew attention to the ink stain against paper the color of old bone. She pulled her fingers away as if they’d been burned. “Perhaps you should consider the same, Rami.”
“What I want?” Rami echoed.
“Don’t look so confused. You’re not trying to get into Heaven anymore. You’re surrounded by mortals and books and gods know what else. You’re allowed to want things now. Give it a try; you might find it grows on you. Like a barnacle.”
There was a precise conversation Claire was having, and there were
