The path they were taking was familiar; they were headed to the damsel suite. The thought of another threat there made her heart bottom out. Brevity glanced to her side, but Probity kept pace with fierce determination, not even breathing hard as she nodded. “Whatever you need. I’ve got your back.”
That helped both versions of herself solidify together, if only for a moment. Brevity took a breath and followed Chiara through the suite door with determination. She could handle this, any situation; she was prepared; she could handle this just as well as—
“Claire!”
Brevity felt it like a strangling kind of montage. Scalpel pressed to a bleeding wound on a thin arm. Lucille’s resigned way she stifled a flinch at the pain. Claire’s expression as she turned, some kind of dull pragmatism. And the ink. The ink seemed to drown out everything, smeared across paper-fragile skin, welling at the incision, smudging Claire’s fingertips, dripping . . .
No, not dripping or smudging; that was a different memory, a different time. Brevity sucked in a breath. “What are you doing?”
Claire was occupied with the vial of gore in her hands, stoppering it with a calm that sparked rage in the pit of Brevity’s stomach. Claire looked up. “I’m doing my job. And you?”
There was a guarded reserve there, a waver that said she knew, she knew, she was doing something wrong. It was too familiar: the stiff line of Claire’s back, the distant, flat look as she lifted her chin. Brevity knew that look, knew. It was the way Claire always looked when she felt it necessary to do something cruel.
Brevity steadied herself by application of her nails into the palms of her hands. “Step away from Lucille, Claire.”
Claire flinched as if slapped but drew herself up and took half a step apart from the older woman. “I have what I need, in any case.”
“And what would that be?” Probity asked lowly. She’d brushed up to Brevity’s shoulder, a small gesture meant to be supportive. A soft horror colored Probity’s soft voice, and her eyes were wide. “What use does a librarian have for blood?”
“Ink,” Claire corrected sharply. “It’s Library business.”
“Library business is not attacking people!” Brevity hadn’t meant to shout, but the sick feeling bubbled up through her throat. Many of the damsels stood in their places, still as stone. Becca was already helping Lucille wrap a clean towel over her arm. Lucille was too stubborn to return to her book to heal, but she’d be fine—Brevity knew this, but the fact was too quiet to drown out the recoil that Claire had bled a character. She’d damaged a book. Even now, after all that had happened. Probity laid a steadying hand on her shoulder and Brevity remembered herself. Yes. She was the librarian now. “We should talk about this, Claire. Outside.”
Claire opened her mouth, then closed it. Her lips paled into a fine line and she busied herself with wiping the ink off her fingers onto her skirt. “This is quite unnecessary,” she muttered as she swept up the vials in one hand and strode to the door.
Probity made a show of stepping aside with a sad shake of her head. “That’s the librarian’s call, not yours.”
If Claire’s footsteps faltered, just once, she covered it by turning stiffly back to Lucille. “Thank you for your cooperation.” And she swept out the door.
Brevity made to follow but hesitated. Lucille was being tended to, and the other damsels only cast her a reproachful look before slowly drifting back to their small groups. Brevity deserved their judgment, she supposed. She was responsible, for all of them. It had never felt like such a weight until today.
Probity caught her gaze and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You are the rightful librarian,” she said quietly. There was a fervent belief in her voice, one Brevity couldn’t find in herself. She clasped onto it and strode into the darkness of the stacks.
* * *
CLAIRE WAS WAITING FOR her, leaning up against the wall under a silver section placard that read MODERN NONCANON TRANSFORMATIVE WORKS. Her arms crossed like a shield in front of her chest, her head turned upward, studying the bobble of the faerie light. Brevity had always found the silvery way it lit the shelves enchanting, but now it painted Claire’s face like frost, making her seem like a cold, removed thing.
“What happened?” Brevity asked, tight and controlled.
Claire blinked placidly at her, though a nervous energy twitched her ink-stained fingers. “Nothing to alarm yourself about. I am following a line of inquiry that needs a sample, and Lucille volunteered—”
Heat rose in a spike in Brevity’s chest. “She didn’t volunteer. They never volunteer!” She bit down hard on her lip as Claire’s expression dropped. Brevity shook her head. “No books volunteer for your scalpel. Especially not the damsels; they know the risk of being shelved. Whatever Lucille did—”
“You think I attacked her?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time!” Brevity threw out her hands. “Boss—Claire,” she corrected her slip. No, Brevity was the librarian now. She had to do her job. Protect the books, even from Claire’s misgivings. She was keenly aware of the weight of Probity’s worried gaze on the back of her neck. Guarding, also judging. “I kinda thought—Hero and all—you’d come around. Figured some stuff out.”
Claire flinched as if she’d been struck. “I don’t need to figure things out.” She pulled two vials of ink from her pocket, wielding them like a key. “I know unwritten books; don’t presume to chide me just because now
