Irene glared up at her, struggling to form words. You stupid idiot, don’t you realize that I was about to tell you something important?
This would have been the perfect time to develop telepathy, except that as far as she knew, it was purely fictional.
Bradamant leaned across to retrieve the ledger. “I’m not blind, you know,” she said. “I have been aware of you watching me. Your little sneers at the fact that I enjoy nice clothing. I’ve seen you turn up your little nose at my interest in completing the mission and my willingness to lie to get the job done. Your general . . . dislike of me? Yes, dislike is a good word. We wouldn’t call it quite scorn now, but you don’t like me at all.”
I suspect Dominic Aubrey isn’t really Dominic Aubrey, Irene tried to convey with her eyes. I think Alberich replaced him days ago. I think that the kind man whom Kai and I met was actually something old and vicious wearing Dominic Aubrey’s skin. And I think the only reason he hasn’t found the book yet is that he didn’t know about Dominic Aubrey’s contacts. And, crucially, he hasn’t bothered to check Dominic Aubrey’s mail.
“Get over it.” Bradamant smiled down at Irene. “Some of us aren’t the spoilt offspring of lucky parents, who then spend the rest of their lives being treated like little angels. Some of us are grateful to be out of places worse than you can imagine.” A shadow flickered behind her eyes. “We appreciate what we’ve been given. And we would do anything, anything at all, to do our job properly. You can play around with your great detective as much as you like, Irene—oh, don’t think I never worked that one out. I know who you want to be. But I know who I am. I’ll sacrifice whoever and whatever I must sacrifice to complete the mission. If you really understood, if you were really a proper Librarian, then you’d do the same. Perhaps some day you will understand that.”
You’re about to walk right into his arms. Irene could feel tears burning at the corners of her eyes. You’re going to walk in there and you have no idea.
“I’ll lock the door behind me,” Bradamant said helpfully. “You shouldn’t have any werewolves bursting in on you while you’re helpless.”
I hope they bite your bloody nose off, Irene thought vengefully.
“Don’t think of me as malicious,” Bradamant said, then paused. “Actually, do think of me as malicious. Think of me as a malicious bitch who’s going to take your mission, your credit, and possibly your apprentice if you haven’t spoiled him too much. Think what you like. But—” She leaned forward and patted Irene’s cheek gently.
Irene couldn’t even feel the touch of Bradamant’s hand against her skin.
“Think of me as a bitch who gets the job done,” Bradamant said. She walked across to the door. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Irene stared at the bare desk in front of her, sprawled like a doll in the chair. She couldn’t turn her head, and she didn’t have the muscular focus to scream. She tasted bitterness and despair.
Perhaps she had been wrong to bind Bradamant by an oath in the Language, she thought through the confusion. Perhaps this betrayal ultimately came down to her own insult to Bradamant’s integrity.
Or then again, perhaps Bradamant was a backstabbing bitch.
A nagging twitch of guilt lurked at the back of her mind. Yes, she had to admit it: she had enjoyed working with Vale. It wasn’t just a case of her Great Detective fixation. (She’d always loved the Holmes stories. And the Watson stories. And even the Moriarty stories.) But there was more to Vale than just being a great detective. There was the prickly man who’d confessed to his split with his family but who was still ready to help them when they asked. There was his surprising generosity and courtesy. There was even the humanizing touch that he’d lent Kai his dressing-gown, and she’d found them sitting over breakfast discussing airships.
She wasn’t a child looking for a role. She was a Librarian with a job to do, and sharing information with Vale and Singh had resulted in things getting done.
Letting herself be immobilized by guilt would be as poisonous as Bradamant’s curare, and as harmful.
There was something deeper to this, though. As she struggled to stay alert, as her mind fought not to follow her body into lassitude, she tried to think it through. She had nothing better to do, after all. Librarians didn’t betray other Librarians like this. Bradamant had been playing the part thoroughly but, just once or twice, she’d seen that Bradamant had been afraid. She’d taken up someone else’s mission—something that was, if not actively forbidden, at least a serious breach of convention. She’d already tried and failed once to get the book. Now she’d assaulted Irene and left her in danger in order to reach the book first. Who could have pushed her that far?
Irene felt chilled. Some of the older Librarians had . . . unsavoury reputations. A lifetime among books didn’t cultivate depravity or debauchery as much as a love of mind games and politics. And those games could turn dark. Even Coppelia could have her own objectives. Look at Kai, for instance. He’d been planted on Irene in the middle of a mission involving Alberich. What precisely was going on there? How many people had guessed the truth about him?
Her mind felt as if it were stuffed with marshmallows, clogged at the edges and fuzzy in the middle. It must be the drug. But she had to think: she had to work this out. She had the facts. She just needed to apply them.
Compared with Coppelia, there were people like Kostchei, Bradamant’s patron. He was reclusive and exacting. Nobody dared argue with his
