A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“You’re too cliché to be one of her books.” Beatrice licked her thumb and turned the page of her paperback. “Frankly, I’m surprised you let another of us out and about, Claire.”

“She didn’t ‘let’ anything. I freed myself. Without help,” Hero said.

“How clever of you. And they say we heroes aren’t smart.” It was Beatrice’s turn to squint. She placed an ink-stained finger to her chin. “Curious thing, though. Calling you Hero .”

Leto knew Hero enough now to tell that ruffled him. A tic started in his jaw. Hero’s gaze flickered to Claire and back. He didn’t challenge Beatrice with a look again. His hand brushed at his hair in short, jerky movements. “Good a name as any.”

“Really?” Claire had waited out the pissing match with a bored expression that made Leto stifle a grin. She straightened now. “If you two are really quite done… Any word from Andras yet?”

Hero shook his head and Claire pursed her lips around a sigh. She crossed the room and plucked out of Beatrice’s hands the paperback, which she’d hidden behind like a shield. “The codex, Bea. Time is of the essence.”

“Time is exactly what I’m considering.” Beatrice was quiet, but she folded her arms in a motion that mimicked her author perfectly and she held her gaze. “I won’t send you back.”

“I’m going back to the Library either way. I’m needed there. The only thing we’re debating is whether I have to take you with me or not.”

Beatrice’s slouch stiffened into stubbornness. “I won’t go back. I’ll give it to your angels first.”

Claire’s smile chilled. “We’ll see about that.”

There was a beat of silence that threatened to freeze over. Leto coughed. “I’m hungry. Is the kitchen okay to use or…?”

“Down the hall. Help yourself.” Beatrice didn’t break her glaring match with Claire, but she waved a hand vaguely behind her.

“Come on, Hero. Should eat something while we still got human taste buds,” Leto said.

“Oh no. This showdown is too good to pass up.” Hero, recovered from his earlier mood, danced a look between Claire and her hero. “Like a bull and a brick wall.”

“I’ll assume I’m the bull in this scenario,” Claire said.

“Not even for little cakes? You said you liked cakes with frosting,” Leto said.

Hero finally allowed himself to be distracted. “Maltese cakes?”

“Little Debbie, actually. I think I saw a box earlier while we were searching. C’mon.” Throughout the exchange, neither Claire nor Beatrice had moved. They’d barely blinked, locked with a divide of hurts between them. So Leto was relieved when Hero allowed himself to be led from the room. They wandered down the hall and left the librarian to face her hero.

IT WAS A SLOW-MOTION earthquake, the lurch and shiver of the ground beneath her feet, perfectly timed with the deep, bottomless howl that reached through thick city walls to stroke goose bumps over her skin. The Hellhounds were not tiring. Claire knew they wouldn’t, but there was a difference between theoretically understanding an immortal, indefatigable, undeterrable monster from Hell and having it shake plaster dust into your hair.

The interminable shuddering as the beasts flung themselves at Mdina’s wards, the way the air in her lungs seemed to vibrate each time they howled, the way her pulse rose and fell with their growls—it all rubbed her nerves raw. Her sanity might break before the Silent City’s wards did. The unrelenting rhythm of it was dizzying.

It was why she was simultaneously relieved and annoyed when Beatrice broke the silence.

“I have something for you.” She hefted from the desk a familiar book, leather bound and weathered, like all unwritten books. Beatrice held it gingerly, her face full of vulnerable uncertainty—an alien expression for a hero. She watched Claire like she was an animal she might startle with fast movements.

Claire crossed her arms. “Unless that’s the codex pages, you and I have nothing to talk about.”

Ink-stained fingers curled reflexively against the book. “I was under the impression that a librarian had a duty to her books.” Beatrice kept her voice neutral. “I was hoping you would be willing to look at mine while you were here.”

Claire’s anger faltered, despite her best efforts. “Your book is damaged?”

“Just loose binding. Thirty years on Earth is hard on a body. I don’t want to risk losing any pages.”

Claire pursed her lips at that. A shade of the old guilt and duty tugged at her. “I’ll work on it in exchange for the pages of the codex.”

“The Claire I knew would have done it out of kindness.”

“The Claire you knew killed her only friend for an infatuation. Let’s hope a lot has changed since then.” She tilted her chin. “I’ll do it for a favor, then.”

“We both know it was more than an infatuation,” Beatrice pressed. She shook her head. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Then it’s convenient that your needs and desires don’t concern me anymore.” Despite these words, Claire snatched the book from Beatrice’s hands and picked at the disintegrating thread. Something in her twisted at the sight of a damaged book, especially her own. “I suppose you don’t have any traditional linen thread in this day and age.”

“You can get anything in Malta if you simply know who to ask.” Beatrice waved to her recently tidied desk. “Scarlet dyed, hand drawn, just like you prefer. Bottom drawer.”

Claire sat down behind the desk and began shuffling through the drawer, pulling out a tidy bunch of red thread, thick needles, and other bookbinding materials. The familiarity brought a strange stab of comfort.

Beatrice drew near her, leaning on the edge of the desk. She felt the unwritten woman’s dark-eyed gaze follow her hands as she pulled out a particularly sharp-looking scalpel and needle. Color drained from Beatrice’s cheeks, her shoulders stiffened, and she faced straight ahead.

Books were squeamish patients sometimes, but that suited Claire. She turned her focus on the book and began inspecting the tension in the binding. Stress slowly edged out of her shoulders as she set into a rhythm of running her ink-stained fingers over each line of thread, progressing quickly through her inspection with long practice.

It was calming, after a fashion. Books were always easier this way. Mere paper and leather. Simple, physical, containable. But, like people, books rarely stayed that way. Stories never lived only in the ink.

Beatrice kept her eyes forward, but long, calloused fingers drummed on the desk in a patient rhythm. “You seem to have made friends. They’re… nice.”

“A demon, a broken hero, and an amnesiac. If you want nice, you should meet my assistant.” Claire adjusted the desk lamp for better light. “You’re in luck. It appears the headband is frayed and just needs tightening. Good. I didn’t have the time or resources to do an entire rebinding.” She began to work her tool carefully between the leather cover and the spine.

Beatrice flinched away at the creak of leather. “You trust them enough to travel with them.”

“Trust born of necessity.” Claire finished working away the leather cover, leaving a thick stack of sturdy vellum pages fused together with thread and glue. She ignored much of the binding and focused on the delicate line of frayed thread at the top of the spine.