“I did,” Kai said. “That trap took the skin off your hand as neatly as if—well, as if it was a glove being peeled off.” He went down on one knee and took her hand in his, winding the bandage round it again. “Vale gave me some antiseptics and bandages, and I set some healing spells on it, but try not to use it too much.” His touch was careful and precise, his fingers dry and hot when they brushed her wrist. “Normally I’d say that you can take the bandages off in a couple of days, but I don’t know about chaos contamination.”
“I can check that easily enough,” Irene said confidently. “This room has enough books in it for me to try asserting basic resonance.”
Kai glanced around at the heavily shelved walls. “You don’t need to be in a real library for that?”
Irene shrugged, then grimaced in pain as the movement twisted her hand in Kai’s hold. “Sorry,” she said, as he gave her a disapproving look. “Not exactly. I’d need to be in a real library to open a passage, but a single room of books is enough for me to reaffirm my links. Of course, it has to be a lot of books . . .” She smiled for a moment, remembering the smell of old celluloid and dustless air. “Actually, any significant store of knowledge or fiction can be made to function. I did it in a film storage section once, an archive of old television programmes. Not a single book in sight, all film reels and computer data, but the similarity in purpose and function was enough.”
“Go on.” Kai leaned forward eagerly. “Do it.”
“All right.” Irene was nervous, now that it actually came down to it. She’d spoken glibly enough about contamination, and while she knew the theory on the subject—it’ll wear off; just be sensible and avoid further exposure and stay away from the Library until you’re clear—she’d never actually experienced it herself. “You may want to stand away from the walls.”
“I’m nowhere near the walls,” Kai pointed out.
“Oh. Right.” Irene swallowed. “Okay.”
She took a deep breath, wetted her dry lips, and invoked the Library by her name and by her rank as Librarian, speaking the words in the Language that described it. Unlike nouns or other parts of speech, words that described the Library or the Language themselves were among the few parts of the Language that never changed.
The bandages covering her hand burst into flame. The shelves on the walls shuddered and groaned, wrenching from side to side and creaking like living trees in a winter storm, and books tumbled to crash on the floor. Tossed-aside newspapers and piles of notes rustled and moved, crawling along the floor in fractions of an inch, writhing away from her like crushed moths. The fountain pen on the desk jolted and rolled across the open notebook where it had been balanced, trailing ink behind it in a dark wet line.
“What the devil!” Vale burst in, carrying an enamelled tea-tray. “What do you think you’re doing—”
“Excuse me,” Kai snapped, grabbing the blue-and-white milk jug off the tray. He caught Irene’s wrist in his other hand and shoved her blazing bandaged hand into the jug, flames and all.
There was a hiss and a gout of steam, and her hand went out.
“Thank you,” Irene said, trying to get her breathing stable again. Her hand ached as if it had been stung by wasps all over and then left to get sunburned. “I’m so sorry about the milk, but I take my tea black anyway . . .” She was conscious that she was babbling, but she had to say something to try to explain things, and besides, her hand hurt.
“My books!” Vale exclaimed in horror, looking around the room. “My notes! My—my—” He stood there, tea-tray shaking in his hands, glaring down at her in fury. “Miss Winters, kindly explain yourself!”
Irene considered a number of things. She considered fainting. She considered claiming that it was a magical attack. She considered just giving up on Vale and walking out of the door. She also, with a pang of regret, considered how she’d feel if it had been her books all over the floor. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Vale. I was trying something and it went wrong.”
Vale set down his tray on the nearest bit of uncluttered table with an audible thump and tinkle. “Something. Went. Wrong,” he said coldly.
“Yes,” Irene said. She pulled her hand out of the jug. It dripped milk. “I’m terribly sorry.”
Vale tapped his fingers against the surface of the tray. “May I ask if something is going to go ‘wrong’ again in the near future?”
“I think it very unlikely,” Irene said hopefully. “I’m terribly sorry. Could I have some clean bandages, please?” Vale stared at her.
“I’ve never seen her do it before,” Kai put in. “It was an accident.”
“Simply an accident,” Irene agreed. “I truly am extremely sorry.”
“I’m sure you are,” Vale spat out. “Very well. Bandages.” He slammed the door behind him as he left the room.
“What does that mean?” Kai demanded. “The books! The papers!”
“It means I’m contaminated after all,” Irene said quickly and quietly. “We can’t get into the Library until I’m clear. And I can’t use the Language reliably.”
Kai stared at her. “You’re being awfully calm about this.”
“Having your hand catch fire puts things into perspective . . . ,” Irene said. Any words would do, anything that kept her from panicking. She couldn’t afford to panic. She was contaminated with chaos, sick with the stuff, and she could only hope that she was right, that it would go away in time. But now she had to hold together and be in charge. “I find that it distracts me.”
Kai just looked at her for a few seconds longer, then turned to glare at the door.
