A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“So why isn’t it changing?”

The way Claire blinked at him elicited another chuckle that looked like it hurt. Hero rubbed his ribs ruefully. “It never occurred to you. You’re still thinking of this place as Andras’s. It’s yours now, isn’t it?”

It stung a little, but Claire had to nod. Hero made an imperious gesture. “Then Claire-ify it. Oh— clarify ! God, I’m clever.”

“Please stop,” Claire groaned, and surveyed the lab, if only to shut him up. It was too dark, too sterile, too much a cross between Frankenstein’s laboratory and a Gothic parlor. She concentrated, remembering the golden glow of the Library, shabbily appointed chairs, and hot tea. She couldn’t re-create that, but perhaps she could create something adjacent.

The shift was slow, like that of a photo developing in a dark room. Color slowly seeped into the walls, warming the wood. Pools of light sprang up with lamps where there were none a moment before. The orientation of the lab seemed to pivot around her until all had changed. Claire twisted around slowly to take it in.

Tidy cubbies built of dark wood made neat rows along the sides of the large room. Each row was spotted intermittently with a globe lamp. An ordinary lamp, not like those in the Library she knew, made of frosted glass and brass, but tidy and functional. Generous worktables dotted the front, gleaming with polished wood and more brass tools lit by overhead lights. It was warm, orderly, if too mechanical. Not quite the Unwritten Wing, but approximate. Some tension slowly began to leak from Claire’s chest.

Hero made an approving sound in his throat, soft and a little surprised. “Nicely done.”

“It… it will do.” Claire dusted her hands, though she hadn’t used them, and focused on Hero. “I suppose you’re here to blackmail me. You were going to run off and tell the courts what a horrible librarian I am, weren’t you?”

Hero pursed his lips and looked away. Claire thought she almost detected red in his cheeks. He reached a hand up to rub his cheek but stopped when his fingertips touched the scars. “I… was angry when I said that. Besides, I suppose that’s lost any bargaining power now. Now that you’re not…”

Claire shrugged. “They could always demote me to janitor.”

Hero chuckled and winced. Up close, Claire could see there were still feathers of bruised ink clinging to the skin around the scars. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

Claire snorted, turning her head to survey the room again. She was aware of Hero’s watching her for a reaction. “I suppose I wanted to see the place. And give Brevity some room to settle in.”

“You haven’t been exiled, you know. The Unwritten Wing needs plenty of help. One big, happy Library, after all.”

“One big, happy,” Claire repeated.

Hero rolled his eyes. “What are you going to call the place?”

“Call it? It’s the Arcane Wing.”

“That’s incredibly boring. Besides, I can’t see calling you the Arcanist. How about… the Vaults?”

Claire wrinkled her nose. “Too steampunk. Arcane lab?”

“Too nerdy. You do lock things up. How about the Cells?”

“What, so you can keep calling me warden? No, thanks.” Claire’s smile stilled as her eyes landed on the empty cages at the back. Her chest felt hollow. “Maybe a place like this shouldn’t have a name.”

“Oh, come, now.” Hero made a sharp noise. “I won’t have you sulking down here by yourself. You’re no fun when you brood.”

“I’m no longer here for your amusement. Not your librarian now, remember?”

“True. You’re not the warden anymore.” Hero considered. “I suppose I’ll just have to run away again. Brevity won’t have time to miss me for a while.”

That was bait that Claire was in no mood to ignore. She whipped her head back around and stabbed a finger at Hero’s chest. “You absolutely will not. Brevity will have a hard enough ti—”

“Peace,” Hero interrupted, and slid his gaze lazily around her face before coming to a conclusion. “How about a truce? You stick around, I’ll stick around.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Is it?” Hero mused. “I thought that’s what friends did.”

Claire pressed her lips together, silenced by that. Artifacts gleamed underneath their new, cozy lights. Gems winked with dark eyes, all turned toward their new keeper. The force of the gaze felt heavy on Claire’s shoulders, harsh but not hostile. The wing listened. The wing watched.

Hero broke the spell after a moment, clicking his tongue. He squeezed her arm.

“Come on, Claire. New story. There’s work to do.”

This book started its life as a nonsense short story about a nervous demon courier and a grumpy librarian. It was a long, winding road from an idea in my own Unwritten Wing to here, a finished book in your hands. It was not the first book I ever drafted (there are many, many trunked novels), but it was the first book I truly wanted to believe in. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to properly thank and acknowledge every kind person who helped this strange book on its way, but I’ll try.

Thank you, first and foremost, to my agent, Caitlin McDonald, who believed so much in this book that she forgave the fact that it came attached to an author with the personality of a magpie. And to Rebecca Brewer at Ace Books, who championed it onward. Without Caitlin’s and Rebecca’s considerable skill and energy, Claire and the gang would not have made it the last mile out of the Unwritten Wing. I also want to extend my sincere gratitude to the entire Ace and Penguin Random House team, including Jessica Plummer, Alexis Nixon, and Dan Walsh.

Special thanks to writer friends and mentors who read early drafts and yelled at me until I explained how living books actually worked:

Teresa Nielsen Hayden, Scott Lynch, Steve Gould, Sherwood Smith, Chris Wolfgang, Jennie Goloboy, Tyler Hayes, Jo Miles, and Elizabeth Kalmbach (and Cru). Thank you to Rebecca Littlefield, a dear friend who was the one who heard me go, “Ha-ha, but what if a library in Hell…” and ordered me to write it. Special thanks to Jennifer Mace, who helped me check a few Britishisms, and John Appel, my consultant on all matters pointy-things related. All errors are my own.

Thanks to Jilly Dreadful’s Brainery class, and the amazing Viable Paradise workshop community, who helped me put the book through the fire and melt out the (many) flaws. All my love, gratitude, cheesy weasels, and space whales to the writers of the Isle, VP20, and the Pub. I would not still be doing this without you.

Love and gratitude to my family, who have always encouraged my writing even when they did not entirely (or even partially) share the interest. To my sister, for understanding what it takes to get here, and my mom and dad, who didn’t, but were proud of me anyway. Look, Mom. All those book fairs and bedtime stories paid off. Dad—it’s not a cowboy story but I hope it’ll do.

And to my husband, Levi, to whom this book is dedicated: thank you. You were my first reader, the one who gave the crucial initial shove out of my personal Unwritten Wing, and have been there for every word, weasel, and win. You are and always will be my favorite story.

A. J. Hackwithis (almost) certainly not an ink witch in a hoodie. She’s a queer writer of fantasy and science fiction living in Seattle and writes sci-fi romance as Ada Harper. She is a graduate of the Viable Paradise writers’ workshop and her work appears in Uncanny magazine and assorted anthologies. Summon A.J. at your own peril with an arcane circle of fountain pens and classic RPGs, or you can find her on Twitter and other dark corners of the internet.