by A J Hackwith
It hurt, the silence. But then Claire was very skilled at finding the most efficient ways to hurt herself.
“The Librarian has requested conference with the Arcanist,” Hero said in a withering voice that capitalized titles out of spite. He leaned back in order to more properly look down his nose at her. “Is that formal enough for you, warden?”
Claire’s cheeks heated, but she was well practiced at returning Hero’s glare. “You don’t have to be an ass about it.”
“I was just about to say the same thing! How delightful.” Hero easily snaked his arm through the crook of Claire’s elbow. “And I couldn’t help but overhear you ordering your gloomy feather duster in the same direction—”
“Feather duster?” Rami objected, half-confused but certain of insult.
“—so we can all go together! Just like old times. Except he’s not trying to kill us,” Hero amended. “Yet.”
Claire allowed herself to be escorted out of the wing, if only to avoid impending bloodshed.
* * *
* * *
CLAIRE HAD WALKED THE path between the Unwritten Wing and the Arcane Wing countless numbers of times. She also hadn’t walked it once in the last six months. She was almost grateful for the way Hero kept up an irritating patter of snark and asides, ribbing Rami endlessly and giving Claire something to focus on besides the familiar creak of boards beneath her feet.
The doors had changed, too, when Brevity had accepted the librarian mantle. They were cherry-stained now instead of buttery oak. It was a cheerier improvement, Claire thought, so like Brevity. The door was adorned with broad silver handles and a knocker that invited someone to come in, find themselves a book, stay awhile. Not that the Library had many visitors in Hell. Even fewer after the fire.
The Unwritten Wing had been quieter than ever after the coup attempt. Andras, the former demon Arcanist, had attempted the unthinkable—taking control of the Library. He’d failed but burned hundreds of unwritten books on his way down. It was a scandal, even in Hell, and prompted even demons to stay away. Somehow the ghost of Claire’s failure had musted the air like mothballs, no matter how much Brevity wiped down the shelves.
“Look alive, you brute. Your favorite is back,” Hero said, insults rubbed thin with affection as they passed the giant gargoyle that kept guard outside the wing. It was dozing in a span of false sunbeam in its alcove and barely roused with their passing. Claire caught a flash of flower petals on its brow before the familiar dimensional vertigo set in. Probably one of the damsels had done that, though who knew where they’d have gotten flowers.
“Hello,” Claire just remembered to say before the pause became awkward. The gargoyle’s arm was gritty and reassuringly solid under her fingertips despite his non-euclidean angles. At least not everything had changed. The gargoyle gave an eldritch hum that made everyone wince, but it was a fond kind of abomination. Not everything had forgotten her.
Hero quickened his step to jump ahead and pull the doors open, keeping up lazy commentary that sounded more artificial than normal.
Claire stepped through the entry and stopped. The doors had merely been a prelude to change. The stacks remained in their same general configuration—branching canyons of tall shelves, spoking out from the lobby space in the middle. There was still the librarian’s desk, as large and anchored as ever. The desk was the eternal sun around which the celestial array of the Unwritten Wing turned. But everything felt shifted out of alignment. The woods were stained a cherry color, and the brass workings of Claire’s preference were gone. Instead, tiny little faerie lights raced up and down the vertical surfaces of the cavernous wing, lighting everything in a diffuse kind of cheer. Instead of brass rails keeping books from falling off their shelves like jailers, delicate wood carvings hemmed each row, almost like picket fences making a garden of the books rather than a confinement. The Unwritten Wing was still as large and echoing as ever, but Brevity’s influence on the Library left it feeling almost soft around the edges.
The emptiness in Claire seemed to have taken up residence in her chest. She had thought the complicated dull ache she felt couldn’t be dislodged, but when she focused back on the librarian’s desk, her heart did a painful lurch up her throat.
The chair behind the desk was occupied, back to the doors. Perched at the opposite end of the desk was a spritely figure, head bent in conversation. For a moment, it was a specter of the past to Claire. How many countless days had they spent in that arrangement? She worrying away at her busywork, Brevity keeping her company with a steady patter of reports and idle chatter intended to draw Claire into something approaching human conversation.
She blinked hard, twice, and returned to her senses. The figure perched at the end of the desk looked like a muse but was not Brevity. This muse had a pin-straight fall of lavender hair, not a teal explosion. Wore ruffles instead of neon straps and pockets. Hero cleared his throat, and the chair behind the desk turned, disgorging Brevity as she leapt to her feet at the sight of the new arrivals. “Claire! Oh, brilliant, you found them.”
This last comment was directed at Hero, who sketched a sardonic bow that Claire would have grumbled at him for. But this was not her Library; Hero was not her assistant. Instead, Claire bit her tongue and drafted a smile onto her face. “Brev.”
Brevity approached at her usual speed, and if she paused, hesitating on one foot long enough to flinch uncertainly before squeezing Claire in a hug, neither of them was willing to acknowledge it. It was a one-armed hug, the other stiff at her side. Claire tried not to miss it.
“Thank you for coming,” Brevity whispered, and this, at least, seemed heartfelt. Claire smiled around the lump in her throat, and Brevity nudged her back toward the librarian’s desk. “There are introductions to make. We have a guest! Probity is visiting the wing as an envoy from the Muses Corps,” Brevity said, introducing the lavender-haired woman at the desk.
“And as a sibling muse,” the other muse corrected with a fond tone. She looked like a porcelain shard. Her hair softened the effect, hanging around her pointed chin in sheets of silk. It contrasted with her too-smooth mint-tinged skin and silver eyes set above precise cheekbones. Muses were the couriers of inspiration and naturally attracted to color. She wore a layer cake of soft knits: white cashmere over blue lace and yellow tatter. The bubblegum pink ribbon in her hair was clasped with a tiny bird skull. The effect was as if a porcelain doll had escaped the tyranny of petticoats and discovered the pastel goth aesthetic as an act of rebellion. She had a detached kind of smile as she nodded to Claire, voice airy with politeness. “You must be the former librarian, then.”
Claire had the grace not to flinch. “I am the Arcanist of the Arcane Wing. I expect to be pleased to make your acquaintance.” She chose her words precisely, and it was petty, but Claire believed she could be afforded that much, all things considered.
“My mistake, Arcanist.” Probity’s head tilted as if she were about to add something more, but Brev interrupted with a cleared throat.
“And this is Hero. And Ramiel.”
Their guest muse turned. “Master Ramiel, shepherd of souls, it’s an honor.” Her face reshuffled into a formal kind of respect as she nodded to Rami and spared a little wave for Rosia, who was hiding half in Rami’s shadow. Her gaze didn’t linger until it got to Hero. Probity’s eyes widened. “Oh, this is the book? The book?”
“Yes?” Hero hesitated as Probity straightened attentively. “Or no. That depends what I’m accused of.”
Probity drew up close, peering into his face for apparent confirmation. She only came up to Hero’s chest, so she strained to her tiptoes. There was a little awe in her voice, and a limpid amount in her wide eyes. “You really are. Hero, the character that broke his own book. The book that’s forgotten itself.”
“Broken, that’s me. Charmed.” Hero cleared his throat, red in his cheeks. Evidently Brevity had not warned Pro
bity that behind all the bluster, Hero was wary of strangers. He made to step back, but Probity clapped her hands abruptly around his face.
“Oh,” Probity whispered with reverence. “You’re amazing.”
Hero made a noise of stifled discomfort. Claire was about to intervene when Probity withdrew her hands with a blush. “We heard so much about you, after the burning. The book so damaged to reject its own character. Do you . . .” She stepped into his space again. “Do you have it on you? I’d love to see it.”
“A gentleman never tells. Quite forward, aren’t you?” Hero didn’t jump back, but it was a near thing. He stepped sideways, placing the desk between Probity and himself.
“Probity gets straight to the truth,” Brevity explained, and Claire thought there was a graphite streak of protectiveness in her light tone. “You get used to it.”
“Will I?” Only once Hero was certain that Probity would not pursue did he straighten his jacket. “I had no idea muses took such interest in lost causes.”
“Those are the causes I have the most interest in,” Probity said, smiling. “I would very much like to examine your book someday, if you would allow me. Nothing is truly lost. That’s just where the brand-new opportunities lie. Brevity taught me that.”
“I did? Oh, I did. Probity and I grew up together. Back”—Brevity made a purposefully vague gesture—“when we were younger.”
Muses did not age, so much as they came into their innate nature. Young muses, from what Claire understood, often clustered and grew relationships around sympathetic affinities. A muse of Brevity befriending a muse of Probity made a certain kind of sense. Brevity did not like to talk about her past as a muse, and Claire respected that. It didn’t keep her from eyeing Probity carefully. At least she’d drawn her attention away from Hero, who looked almost grateful for it. “The muses honor us with a visit.”
A small crease appeared between Probity’s brows, as if Claire had asked a question that troubled her. “Yes.”
“Probity’s an amazing muse,” Brevity interjected. “Her skill with inspiration gilt is better than anyone’s, and the way she can work with even old gilt—”
“You remember that,” Probity said with a soft color to her cheeks.
“Why?” Claire asked, too sharp and too quick. Hell, her social skills had gotten rusty. “Why visit now?”
The blush curdled on Probity’s cheeks and she frowned. Brevity rushed in. “Of course, I’m thrilled to see you again. But the muses haven’t been exactly . . . communicative . . . with the Unwritten Wing in recent years.”
“And we regret the breakdown as much as we’re sure the Library does.” Probity’s eyes flicked once to Claire, wary as a cat’s, but then were all warmth and kindness for Brevity and the others. “I am here because we thought, with the change of curatorship, we could make amends. Offer support to the Library and the books.”
“Support.” Hero repeated the word, and for once Claire was grateful for his prickly suspicion. He crossed his arms. “Everyone seems so interested in supporting us since the fire.”
Rami grunted his agreement, and the sour look on his face said he was thinking of Malphas, the entirely terrifying demon general of Hell who had visited Claire in the aftermath and instigated all the changes in the wake of Andras’s downfall. To be precise, the books of the Library had removed Claire as the librarian, but it was Malphas who had delivered the message. Probity’s genuine interest was a thin veneer at best, so it was no wonder Rami and Hero looked on any new offers of help the way one would look on a rabid raccoon playing dead.
“Hero,” Brevity said softly. “Don’t be rude.”
Claire opened her mouth with a reply but closed it just as quickly. There was a precise tilt to Brevity’s shoulders, and her hands bunched at her sides, as if cradling a small and fragile thing.
Claire forced her jaw to relax, her tension to leak out. Probity seemed fond of Brevity, and if they were childhood friends she could imagine what hopes Brev might harbor about muses and the Library. And here her supposed friends were picking fights like alley cats. It was Claire’s doing, and she should be the one to make the effort. She took a deep breath, swallowed her dislike, and held out a hand. “Of course. As the Arcanist, I hope we can build a cooperative relationship with the corps.”
Brevity’s smile was so grateful it made Claire feel even worse. Probity, for her part, considered Claire’s hand with a doubtful hesitation. “That is kind but unnecessary. The muses have no relationship or business with the Arcane Wing.”
“Probity!” It was Probity’s turn to get scolded by Brevity’s big eyes. “I invited Claire and Hero up here to introduce you. We’re all members of the Library. Claire taught me everything.”
Claire was watching closely, so it was possible that only she noticed the quiet anger that flinched across Probity’s face, then was gone. “She did. Even in the corps we heard about the former librarian and her methods.”
“Probity,” Brevity said, a little bit plaintively, “Claire is a friend.”
For her part, Claire held still, and all it took was a single finger raised behind her back to get Rami to do the same. She reviewed what she could surmise about a muse named Probity. A muse of probity would be a muse of rightness and moral justice, and, like all muses, would maintain a fluid identity influenced by the human world. Brevity had always been the domain of women, by matter of necessity—less air to breathe, less room to speak. Justice, at the moment, appeared to be a pastel-colored woman with the grit of judgment in her eyes.
When someone decided to hate you, for whatever reason, there was rarely any good in trying to convince them otherwise. Claire couldn’t stop the old taste of guilt that rose, however. She hadn’t been a good librarian. Not for many of the years of her service. She’d been miserable and cold and downright cruel to Brevity even, at first. Until Brevity had worn down her defenses.
Evidently her temperament had gone uncensored, but not unnoticed, by the muses.
There was no fault in Probity’s observations. It was deserved, and defending herself would only make Brevity more miserable, so Claire forced her lips into an accepting grimace. “Yet I believe we can both agree that Brevity makes an excellent librarian.”
Probity seemed caught off guard but nodded once. “That goes without saying.”
It did not go without saying, judging by the way surprise slowly melted into a vibrating kind of happiness as Brevity looked back and forth between them. “I knew you two would hit it off. Brill.”
Claire ignored the strain in that pronouncement. She could pretend, quite a lot, for Brevity’s sake. She owed her that much at least. “Of course. I did have some Library business to discuss with you, as a matter of fact. . . .”
Claire glanced pointedly at Probity, but judging by their faces it appeared neither of the muses understood common concepts like privacy and discretion. Brevity straightened imperceptibly, putting on her very best serious face. “Right. What’s up?”
“We found a damsel wandering in the Arcane Wing,” Claire said with as much patience as she could muster. “Again.”
“Oh.” Brevity’s face fell. She craned around Claire. “Rosia?”
The shadow behind Rami was empty. He frowned at it, then nodded. “I told her she could run off to the suite when you two started . . . discussing.”
Claire ignored the pirouette Rami had executed around the tension in the room in favor of addressing her concern straight on. “That’s the third time this week.”
Brevity studied her hands. “I know.”
“If the damsels are unhappy—”
“That’s a concern for the librarian, is it not?” Probity interrupted quietly. She offered a harmless smile when Claire frowned at her. “I mean, I am only a muse, but surely you have your own charges to worry about, Arcanist.”
Claire’s title slid off Probity’s tongue of
polite sympathy. A syrupy quality of kindness that made her stomach roil. Claire pursed her lips. “I did not cede my personal investment in the Library when I stepped down. If the damsels are not kept in hand, it puts the entire wing at risk—”
“Which is the sole responsibility of the librarian,” Brevity said in a whisper. She was studying her hands, shoulders curved in like shields. “I appreciate your support, Probity, but Claire is right. If there’s a problem, it’s my fault.”
“That’s not true. None of this is your fault; if she hadn’t as librarian—” Probity started when Brevity held up a hand.
“I’ll speak to Rosia and the rest of the damsels. Maybe this time they’ll tell me what I can do to rectify the situation.” She hesitated, glancing at Claire. Her cheeks were flushed lavender. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention . . . and I’m sorry.” Brevity abruptly walked past her desk toward the stacks.
Damn. There was no end to Claire making a social muck of things. She started forward. “Brevity.”
Brevity stopped short and turned, anxiety ringing in every twitch of movement. Claire chewed on her lip and sought the right approach. “I know this falls entirely under your authority,” she said slowly, “but the Arcane Wing would consider it a great favor if we could assist with the Unwritten Wing’s investigation of this issue.”
Brevity’s shoulders sagged, if only a little. “Oh, right. Sure you can.” A sliver, a ghost really, of the old Brevity was there, easy and warm for just a moment before skittering from sight. “Would you, um, like to . . . ?” Wiggling fingers gestured toward the depths of the stacks where the damsel suite was located.
Claire kept her nod businesslike. “Please lead the way.”
It was a pantomime that kept them going. If Claire and Brevity had been intractable from librarian and apprentice, they had been forced to become someone else—something else—now. Arcane Wing and Unwritten. Duties instead of people. Claire, above all, knew how much easier it was to be a duty rather than a person. She also knew the damage it caused. She had worried at it but ultimately decided it was better than losing Brevity entirely. It was as much Claire’s unwillingness to let go of the Library as it was Brevity’s reluctance to step up, after all. They just needed time to settle. A quiet truce would eventually see them back to rights, or at least somewhere adjacent to it.