Librarian Madiha al-Fihri, 612 CE
CLAIRE WASTED PRECIOUS TIME with another visit back to the Library. She couldn’t quite believe Brevity had abandoned them—it—abandoned it, Claire corrected. She couldn’t believe that Brevity would abandon the Library, the books, the damsels who relied on her. It wasn’t like her, not the Brevity Claire knew. Thought she knew.
But there was no denying the dust. Brevity’s books lay open. The tea that had been merely abandoned earlier had now grown cold and silt sifted. There was a muddy boot print on the blotter. Brevity hadn’t even locked up the Library—the logbook was buried underneath a dynasty fantasy she’d been repairing. Claire pulled it out by the edge and studiously ignored the feeling that she was snooping. She’d had thirty years to stare at this book; she’d earned the right to updates.
The book fell open on her lap, fluttering to a specific page with an almost lazy murmur of pages. The latest entry was written in Brevity’s loopy, shy hand:
Log entry number whatever. I’m not even sure I should be writing this down. Is it muse business or Library business? I’m not certain anymore, and there’s no one to ask. Maybe that’s why I’m writing it here.
It almost feels like reporting to boss again. Claire. She doesn’t like it when I call her boss anymore. If she would just talk to me, we could be doing this together. Probity is so certain that this ink will unlock muses, turn us from conduits to creators. She’s so certain. I’m not, but isn’t it worth the risk? Isn’t it what’s best for the books? We could get them written, remake what was lost. If ink is what remains of the lost books, then I want to give them that chance.
Claire’s isolated herself. Hero’s not here. Probity’s like a sister; I shouldn’t feel alone. But it’s like she’s seeing past me, six months into the future or six years into the past. When I’m here. And trying.
I’m trying. I have to try.
Claire smoothed out the parchment under her fingertips before closing the book softly and returning it to its proper place in the bottom right-hand drawer. The faerie lights that lined the fronts of the stacks held back the gloom with a cheer that she didn’t feel. The Library was a sigh, without a librarian here to draw a new breath. The books beckoned, tempting Claire to wander in. She could make up a purpose, to speak to the muses, to do a patrol of the stacks since Brevity had left them so abandoned. But there was only one book she was looking for, and she wouldn’t find it here.
If only Claire would talk to me . . .
Claire retrieved the log, picked up the pen, and was writing before she could think whether it would even work. She was part of the Library, but not the Unwritten Wing’s librarian anymore, and this was the Librarian’s Log. But she wanted—needed—to take a step toward bridging that gap and fixing what she’d been too self-pitying to notice had been broken in the first place. She pressed the nib to the paper and experienced a watercolor of relief and bitterness as the letters streamed out behind it.
I have made many mistakes, but I will try to right them before it costs the Library any more. Ramiel believes he can track our lost character and his book. The Arcane Wing will dedicate every resource to this attempt, in assistance to the Unwritten Wing. We will find him.
“Claire?” Rami hesitated at the threshold, as if realizing she was in a conversation that was both crucial and silent.
Claire hesitated, then signed the log.
I’m sorry. I will do better. You deserve better.
Arcanist Claire Juniper Hadley
She straightened more slowly after she set down the pen. Her gaze trailed along the desk to land on a familiar scalpel that Brevity had been using in repairs.
Claire shoved it in her skirt pocket on impulse. “You are certain you have a trace?” She raised her chin, as if Ramiel’s mysterious certainty wasn’t all that was keeping her together at the moment.
“I am.” Rami held up a puff of silver clutched in one fist. The feather looked less substantial plucked from his coat, but it was imbued with a kind of light that wafted it in a decisive direction.
She didn’t have permission. She was injured and stained by malicious ink. She didn’t believe it could work. She had responsibilities. She had fears. There was an abundance of reasons why she should sit this one out. But it had been her hands that had caused this. Her hands that had cut down a man, stamped a wrist, woken the Library, held a sword, wiped away pages turned to ash.
Color whirled like a wet smear every time she turned her head. The tourniquet of inspiration on her arm was a mere bead of blue now. The ink did not feather or thin beyond it, but glistened. She was carrying the stain of what her hands had done in her skin. It was time to see it through. She owed Hero that much at least.
She tucked her clean hand in Rami’s elbow. “Let’s be off, then, before the damned fool gets the idea to run away.”
Rami nodded softly, giving her a look that said her defensive calm was as thin as rice paper. He made sure Claire had a tight grip on his arm, then held up the feather and blew on it as if it
