“From my brief acquaintance, she seemed to trust you and hold you in high regard,” Rami said.
Brevity’s smile was thin with skepticism, and Hero couldn’t stand the tedious cycle of self-blame a moment longer. He flopped onto Claire’s couch noisily and began to pick dried mud from his coat. “At least now I can officially say I’ve seen a more odious place than the Unwritten Wing. You’ve been grandstanded by the Dust Wing, ladies.”
He waited for Claire’s sharp rebuttal, or at the very least a dismissive noise. When none came, he turned his head. She had tucked her legs to her chest and was nearly swallowed by the pillows Rami had piled around her. That, and the vulnerable uncertainty in her eyes, gave her a more delicate appearance than she normally allowed. Delicate—not breakable—like a fine blade. She studied him with disbelief. “You’re really okay.”
Claire never asked questions, not really. She wielded challenging statements and demanded verification. Hero cleared his throat and studied the ragged tear the muse’s claws had made in the shoulder of his coat. These stains would never come out. Ink and stains and gods knew what else. He was going to have to ask Brevity if Hell had a tailor soon. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are. I hadn’t been sure you would be,” Claire said with unnatural quiet. Some of the tension left her and she unwound herself from her seat to straighten her shoulders. She held out a palm. “Hand it over, then.”
Hero was familiar with that pose, that posture, that steel in her eye as sharp as a scalpel. His stomach dropped, and he found his filthy cuff fascinating again. “Hand over what?”
“Your book. Let’s see what a muck you’ve made of it this time and how many hours of back pain and labor I—” Claire paused. “That I or Brevity is in for to fix it.”
It was under his nails. The damned clay was under his perfectly nice nails. He cast about for a file, but of course Claire wasn’t the type to keep appropriate grooming products on hand.
“Hero?” Claire said.
“I—” Hero cleared his throat and had to count to three before he had the courage to raise his gaze to meet Claire’s. His insides felt a little hollow. “I don’t have it.”
Claire’s eyes flew wide. “You lost your book?!”
“I didn’t—” Hero started, but Claire was already halfway off the couch, though she didn’t let go of the arm for support.
“Of all the irresponsible— How are you still sitting here if you left it in the Dust Wing? You grand fool, we need to go back immediately and—”
“Claire.” Rami caught her before she could stumble away from the couch. He firmly guided her back in a way only Rami could get away with. “He didn’t lose it.” Once she was seated again, he glanced at Hero. His tone was sympathetic but unforgiving. “Tell her.”
Rami’s eyes were encouraging, and Claire’s were confused. A phantom of panic threatened in Hero’s throat. It would change everything, everything he didn’t want changed, he realized. The thought descended like a shock of water. Being a broken book—Claire’s pain in the ass, Brevity’s assistant, Rami’s . . . dear gods, whatever he was to Rami now. He didn’t want any of it to change. He didn’t want to run away, or fix his book, or be anything but what they accepted him as. He glanced to Brevity for reprieve, but her look was curious as well.
The mud on his coat had somehow coated his tongue and Hero had to swallow again before he could start. “There was a struggle, with the muse in the Dust Wing. She . . . consumed . . . my book.”
“What?” Brevity startled to her feet, and she was at least steadier than Claire was.
“It’s gone,” Hero said to the floor.
“That’s impossible.” Claire’s voice was oddly clipped, like she’d dug her fingernails into the shreds of her logic. She shook her head. “Explain yourself.”
By the time Hero had haltingly described his version of events, the chamomile had gone so oversteeped even he wouldn’t try to serve it to Claire. Rami had interjected corrections a couple of times, and picked up on what he saw when Hero fell. Hero had gotten to the part where he’d kissed Rami and chose editorial discretion to skip quickly over it with a rush of heat in his cheeks. Rami sat there just looking calm and supportive. Damn the man. Claire had started out with interrogative interruptions but had slowly dropped to silence.
No one was eager to jump into analysis, which made Hero grateful. He managed to listen to the tick of the Arcane Wing’s cursed clock count a dozen more seconds before Brevity sniffled hard. She was wiping her eyes furiously but saved a watery grin for Hero. “It sounds like you almost—I woulda never forgiven myself if we’d lost you in there.”
“Maybe you did,” Hero said ruefully. His book was gone; that was the part a librarian should have been worried about.
“We didn’t. You remain. Just as the ink remained.” Claire had wrapped her arms over her chest as if she was holding on for dear life, but there was a distant look in her eyes. Hero could feel Claire’s mind turning like an astrolabe, aligning events along some unknown mental star charts. She broke the spell with a blink and focused on Rami. “When you said you thought you could track Hero to the Dust Wing, was it—”
“Souls,” Rami finally said the word that made the entire room feel like a released breath. “That’s how I track anything. And it worked. I began to consider the idea after I read that line in the Unsaid Wing. The old Arcanist said the written and the writer are the same. And then the soul bridge in
