A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

The prospect snagged her breath, and she had to work her lips a few times before the proper words beat out the longing ones. “Where’s the codex, Beatrice?”

“You could stay. That was always the plan, wasn’t it? To—”

Claire gritted her teeth against the words. “Where are the pages ? ”

“I’m not asking anything of you. You don’t have to be with me. You could stay anywhere in the city, and Hell couldn’t—”

Claire felt heat overwhelming her eyes, and she spun, instead focusing a furious scowl that startled Hero into taking a step back. He’d been silent through the entire exchange, a small miracle. Claire found it easy to ignore the muddled questions on his face. “It’s here somewhere. Watch her. I’m going to go fetch Leto and form a course of action.” She heard Beatrice make a sound of protest behind her. “If she tries anything, shoot her.”

Hero gave her an uncertain version of his standard cavalier smile. “As you say, warden.”

Beatrice tried another entreaty, but Claire spun and stormed toward the door.

ALL WORKS ACCOUNTED FOR.

Brevity had run the inventory twice, just to be certain. Three times, to verify she was not hallucinating. It’d taken long enough that Aurora had retreated to the damsel suite to sleep. But the third inventory matched the first two. The blue ledger printed the results in neat, spidery ink that bloomed across the page: no oddities, and all unwritten books accounted for. There was Hero’s book, of course, which was listed tidily as “out on loan,” but all other books, paintings, and other uncreated art were secure in the Unwritten Wing.

Aurora had been insistent that there’d been someone in the stacks. Claire might have dismissed it as a figment of the damsel’s imagination, but Brevity knew imagination. It hadn’t been imagination that’d driven Aurora to speak, or the shelves to shiver. But it made no sense, someone creeping into the Library and not removing anything. The only ones that could enter the Library when it was closed were its current residents, books and artifacts, and those that took care of them.

Those that took care of them. The Arcane Wing’s pet Horrors, clawed hands drifting over shadowed gems. Brevity suppressed a shudder. She tried to think of any rationale around it, anything that would let her just shake the whole thing off and brew the herbal teas Claire hated and binge on the damsels’ baked goodies until the whole thing was settled.

It wasn’t what Claire would do. Claire would stare down a Horror and solve the whole mystery with the power of superior disdain. No, Brevity amended, perhaps she wouldn’t, because she’d never believe there was a mystery in the first place. Brevity wasn’t Claire, and never could be.

Brevity stood, head briefly turning toward the damsel suite. She spared a thought for Walter in his office. Someone would surely be willing to accompany her, give her a reason to be brave as she checked on Horrors. Brevity had always been better at being brave for others than for herself.

But the damsels couldn’t leave the Library. Walter had his own duties. And Claire had told Brevity to care for the wing.

Brevity stowed the ledger, abandoned her tea, and locked the doors behind her as she wound her way down to the Arcane Wing.

The monstrous doors of the Arcane Wing should have been barred and locked, since that was what Claire and Andras had agreed, which would give Brevity the nice excuse that, hey, at least she’d checked.

But the doors were not barred and locked. Aftrer Brevity skipped down the last steps, she skidded to a stop on the dusty hardwood, just short of the reaching shadows cast by the wide double doors of the Arcane Wing. Which stood open.

She wound seafoam hair around her finger and gave it an anxious tug as she took a step over the threshold. The Arcane Wing felt much as it always had, a slithering, hostile composition of shadow and steel. The air was weighted with cold, clinical things, dust and formaldehyde, rubies and neglect. The Arcane Wing had never been a bright place, but even the domed work lights were dimmed, throwing the cavernous space into thick eddies of gloom. Brevity hesitated in the island of light created by the hallway, not quite prepared to dive in.

“H-hullo? Is anyone—” Her voice and courage failed as the ravens unleashed a series of shrieks from the rookery. Otherwise, the Arcane Wing was silent. She didn’t have to venture far in to be certain of it: no demons, no Horrors, nothing. It should have been reassuring, not having to face the monsters she went looking for, and Brevity’s shoulders disengaged from hugging her ears until the thought occurred to her: If they’re not here, then they’re somewhere else.

The breath stopped in Brevity’s throat, and her leg muscles seized.

It was the unknown that did it. It was an easy mistake to make, thinking fear was the ultimate domain of demons. They looked the part. Or mortals, they had such fleeting things to lose. But humans were constantly changing, and demons were creatures of certainty. The truth was no one, no one , knew fear like muses. Fear was an operation of the imagination, the ability to see an empty space and imagine . Imagine what might be there, the possibilities filling in what reality left blank. To be afraid was an exercise of self-inspired suffering, and Brevity wore inspiration in her skin.

It burned now, the edge of the blue tattoo writhing against the fine bones of her wrist and hungry to be peeled loose. In Brevity’s mind, black sickle claws raked over gems and artifacts one moment, her skin the next. Plucking the soft strings of her veins, shredding her. In her mind, the Horrors reached out so surely from the dark she could hear them. It didn’t matter that they weren’t there, couldn’t be there. If she released the inspiration gilt in her skin, pure potential, it would make it real.

A raven shriek brought her back to her senses. Her hand hovered halfway over her wrist. Brevity didn’t try to calm the shuddering heart in her chest, didn’t try to fight the panic that washed over her. She knew from experience that was no good. Instead, she released it, turned her back on the unseen claws, and ran.

She should go to Walter. She would go to Walter. She would be safe with Walter, and she would send a message to Claire on Earth, and Claire could come back and deal with it, and Brevity could be brave for someone else again. That’s what she needed to do. She just needed to navigate down the hallways, avoid the Horrors and her own fear long enough to make it to the transport office and summon Claire. She could do it.

She didn’t remember throwing open the doors of the Unwritten Wing, but she must have locked them behind her. Her knees hit an unwritten rug, and the disappointment she felt was a distant, muted thing. She was devoting too much effort to trying to stop her short, rabbit-quick breath.

Of course, she hadn’t made it to Walter. Of course, she’d not warned Claire, had run instead to cower and hide. Muses could imagine anything, inspire anything in an author, but for themselves? All Brevity gave herself was fear.