The smooth skin of Rosia’s brow furrowed for a moment, perplexed, before she appeared to recognize Brevity. “Hello there.”
Hero’s alarm stalled—not decreasing, but freezing in place. Rosia’s voice had been high and soft, a whisper from a ghost girl. The voice she wore now was warm and solid, like a well-made violin.
Brevity’s face knit into concern. “Rosia? Is that really you?”
The damsel appeared to take that question seriously, pursing her lips for a silent second before nodding. “Quite. I am the most me that I have ever been, in fact.”
“You’re not Rosia.” Claire’s own voice was full of cobwebs. Hero felt her shiver before she cleared her throat and tensed again. “Rosia was a specter. A ghost girl from a ghost story.”
“Rosia was that, for a long time.” She didn’t look upset by the accusation, just thoughtful. “She wanted to be more. Knew there was more. Tried to be more. But the story kept coming through. It was like drowning.” Her pale eyes diverted down to the empty basin at her feet again. Toes scuffed against dry stone. “Easier to drown in ink.”
Hero made a scoffing noise in his throat, if only to make sure the roil of emotion that clotted his mouth didn’t come out as a sob. “Yet you don’t look drowned. It destroyed me.”
“It didn’t mean to.” Rosia looked serious and folded her hands in front of her chest. “You asked for a story and it tried to give you one.”
“I wanted my story,” Hero hissed.
“That was a mistake. Ink can’t write what’s not in you.” Rosia took a step forward, hesitating when Claire flinched back. She stopped near Brevity, who appeared to be staring openly at Rosia with something approaching wonder, not suspicion. “I listened—read? Yes, I read. I read and I read all the stories, until I found myself again.” A smile cut through Rosia’s somber affect. She grinned down at her hands, wiggling them before turning that delighted glance on Brevity. “It took a while, but I found myself in stories. I don’t have to be a ghost. I’m not a ghost.”
“You’re not a ghost,” Brevity repeated with a little awe. “Everyone looks for themselves in story.”
“It worked the same for you, didn’t it? Once you started listening.” Rosia turned her attention, sharp and bright, on Hero, and it felt like a dissection. “You put yourself together with stories too.”
Hero had nothing to answer that. Rosia had touched the ink and found certainty; he had only survived with more questions.
Claire’s head had been bowed, but it came up slow as a rising thought. “Rosia, where’s your book?”
The girl looked down at her hands. They smoothed down her ivory skirt and came away clean. There was no lump in her pocket, no place to stash a small rectangle of paper. She let out a low breath and smiled at Brevity. “Librarian, can I go home now? I’m hungry and this place is too quiet.”
“Rosia, your book—” Claire began sharply.
“I am my own story now.” A first thorn of defiance pricked through Rosia’s voice. She paused, considering. “Or I am many. I haven’t decided yet. But I am enough.”
The minute twitch Claire made traveled up Hero’s arm like a quake. She opened her mouth, then closed it with a shiver.
“Librarian.” Rosia had focused on Brevity again, and a kind of delight softened her face. “I am glad you’re still here. Don’t worry; I’ll help with what’s next. You won’t do it alone.”
Rosia moved swift as a breeze. She scrambled up the side of the basin, pecked a kiss on Brevity’s cheek, and walked down an aisle.
“We should . . . go after her?” Rami asked more than made a statement.
Brevity, eyes still wide, with a hand to her cheek, shook her head. “Ah . . . no, I think she’s going back . . .” She blinked at the spot where Rosia had been. “I think she’s okay.”
Okay. It was such a simple word. No reason for it to roil an inexplicable rise of bile and envy in Hero’s mouth like it did. He swallowed hard.
“At least someone is,” Rami said quietly, with his eyes on Hero’s face. Whatever he could read there had softened his frown. “But what remains . . .”
Claire shivered, suddenly shaking off Hero’s hand with a flick of irritation. He was almost glad after how strangely subdued she’d been. She extended a finger and brushed the tip over the dry, uneven rock bottom. “It’s gone.”
Claire had a complete lack of patience for stating the obvious. Hero felt obliged to remind her of this fact. “Stunning deduction.”
The glare Claire rewarded him with was familiar and reassuring, even if her next question made it sound as if the entire incident were his fault. “How? Ink does not simply disappear, no matter what it’s made of! Rosia obviously wasn’t stained. So who took it?”
“Oh.” Brevity made a surprised sound as she approached the other side of the well. She dropped into the empty basin before anyone could stop her. She stared at Claire with wide eyes. “You did. I think?”
Judging by the way Claire rubbed her face, Hero wasn’t sure just how many more revelations even a human mind as stout as hers was up to today. “Explain.”
“Ink acts on the same wavelength as inspiration gilt, right? That’s what Probity said when she . . . stopped your arm.” Even now, Brevity couldn’t keep from running nervous fingers up her scarred forearm. “When muses carry inspiration, we don’t get the entire story. Just the . . . the seeds. The sparky bits that get them going. The rest of the story comes along later.” She gestured expansively to the empty rock where a pool of ink—souls?—had been.
Claire had been stubbornly crouching but let herself down to the ground abruptly. “It was me. I carried the stain. And when it was loosed in the Dust Wing, when I . . .” She stopped, frowned, corrected herself. “When it pulled the ink from that muse, all the rest
