There was a thread of intensity that tugged Brevity’s head up. Probity was still sitting on the edge of the desk, hands folded in her lap. Still small, still soft, but more somehow. Burning with an intense certainty, the kind of look Claire got when there was trouble. When the solution would be the kind of insanity that Brevity had trouble saying no to.
“What?” Brevity echoed.
“We don’t fix the humans. The books—that’s what’s worth saving. You said it yourself back there. That’s your duty, isn’t it? And if we fix the unwritten stories, the humans will sort themselves out.” Not that Probity seemed to care about mortal problems. She faltered, chewing on a lip before pressing forward. “Have you thought about what I proposed earlier?”
More than thought about it. The possibility burned a hole in Brevity’s pocket. “Maybe.”
Probity hesitated, allowing the silence to draw tight between them until she could be certain of what wasn’t being said. What Brevity couldn’t say but was ready to consider. Probity nodded once, expression easing. “‘Maybe’ is good enough to explore the possibility. If we can just find a way to get a sample of the unwritten ink the Arcanist is keeping.”
“I might . . .” Brevity began slowly. She took a breath, squeezing her eyes shut before committing to the door she was about to open. “I might already have the answer to that.”
Brevity inched her fingers into her pocket and withdrew a single vial of ink.
It took Probity a moment to register it. Not the whipping, reaching tendrils of gold and violet that would have been Lucille’s ink. Her dark eyes narrowed, then widened as she recognized the static cloud, the chopped-up color of error and loss, as it roiled off the ink inside.
“The unwritten ink,” Probity breathed.
“I switched them,” Brevity confirmed, embarrassed at the guilt she felt. Claire would notice eventually, but it would take her a while, not seeing the colors of the world as muses did. “One experiment—one. Just to see if your idea works. And the books have to be protected—”
“We won’t be needing the damsels for this, or any of the books,” Probity reassured her, face blooming wide and hopeful. “I have volunteers—muses. Oh, sis, we can do this. We can do this.”
Probity made a delighted sound and launched herself off the desk. Brevity barely had time to pocket the vial and plant a smile before the hug. It felt warm. It felt sincere. It felt hollow.
They could do this. A quiet voice in the back of Brevity’s mind just worried what, exactly, they would have done.
18
HERO
Stories are as old as us. No one culture holds claim to the creation of the first stories. The origin of stories has often been attributed to something divine—gods, the Fates. The Greeks and their muses, though, that’s something more fickle. Muses aren’t divine, or necessarily benevolent. Their purpose, their gods, are the stories. Anything is justifiable, anything is expendable, in service to that.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1977 CE
THEY FOUND IAMBE LOUNGING with a lyre one hallway over from the stairs that led to the library. She plucked at the strings less like she was playing music and more like they’d offended her. When they asked after the muses, her laughter was bright and vicious.
“You wouldn’t want to step foot in the home of the muses,” she said after she’d recovered herself.
“Why not?” asked Rami.
“Muses don’t have a home; they have a well. A well of possibilities.” Iambe’s gaze darted to Hero. Her eyes were cruel and delighted. “Your sweet little book wouldn’t be quite himself.”
“This isn’t my first after-realm trip. I can take it.” Hero crossed his arms.
Iambe just looked amused. “They would eat you alive, little hero.”
“Be that as it may,” Rami cut in before Hero could think of a witty comeback. “We have questions to which we need answers. Surely there is a way to gain an audience with one of their number?”
Hero still didn’t know what he’d done to earn Iambe’s disdain, but evidently it stopped at irritating scruffy angels in overcoats. She tilted her head, then gave a graceful shrug. “You can go to their little wishing well and make a wish, if you like. If Mother’s thimble of madness wasn’t enough, I suppose you can drown in it.” She rose and began to walk through the columns and into the sunlight. Alecto the lioness padded after her, pausing just long enough to stretch and give a very feline glare at Hero before following.
Rami’s brow knit in a question, but Hero just shrugged his shoulder. “In my experience, this job is ninety percent following or waiting for inscrutable women.”
Rami nodded as they set off in Iambe’s wake. “What’s the other ten percent?”
“Oh, blind terror mostly.”
* * *
THE SUN WAS NO lower in the sky when they followed Iambe outside, along a large promenade. Plump white pillars cast long rivers of shadows across the stone. Alecto let out a low growl as they reached the end and began to descend into a garden. The large cat sat down as if offended, obviously disdaining to go any farther.
“What’s her problem?” Hero asked.
Iambe shrugged as she stepped over the cat’s tail swishing with vexation. “The Furies do not care for muse territory.”
Hero was not too proud to taunt a murder cat, especially one that had been menacing him since he landed. He’d be glad to be rid of the pet. He formed his mouth into a pitying moue. “Afraid, kitten?”
In response, the cat took a lightning-fast swipe at the back of his hand. Pain bloomed, and Hero cursed and stepped back, cradling his hand.
“Are you all right?” Rami asked.
“Do stop taunting the Furies.” Boredom laced Iambe’s voice as she gestured. “This way.”
The cat had taken a sharp rake of skin off the back of his hand. Hero dabbed the bleeding ink off with the hem of his coat. “May you host the most heroic
