The Archive of the Forgotten

by A J Hackwith

  Probity had reverted from awe-striking competence to innocence and lace. Claire was still a limp weight in her arms, and Probity held her like a sack of grain. Hero distantly thought how she would never, never have allowed herself to be manhandled so crudely. The wrongness made his lip curl.

  “I stopped the advance of the ink. Rather, the inspiration did,” Probity said with a certainty in her smile. She tapped her fingers on top of Claire’s blackened wrist. “It’s safe and held in stasis for the moment, though I’m not sure how we’ll be able to extract it intact.”

  The violent impulse that bloomed in his head surprised even Hero himself. It was a cold kind of rage, the kind that must have been simmering under pressure for some time, but he hadn’t seen it form. His hands were full of an unconscious librarian, or he might have done something worse than snarl, “Who cares about the ink?! How is Claire?”

  “Oh.” Probity startled, appearing earnest as she blinked at Hero, then glanced briefly at Claire. “I think the band should slow down any damage the ink was causing?”

  The muscles in Ramiel’s shoulders bunched, causing the feathers sticking out from beneath the coat epaulets to twitch. With some great effort, he lowered the sword again and sheathed it. Hero saw him glance cautiously at the pool of ink. The surface was deceptively still and patient just a few feet away. “Can we move them?”

  Probity shrugged. “Sure. This one will be out for a while. Brevity probably passed out from the shock. She should be fine when she wakes up.” She betrayed her concern with the way she chewed on her bottom lip as she studied Brevity. But then she shrugged Claire out of her lap and might have damn well let her fall had Rami not jumped in to take her.

  Rami adjusted Claire into a bridal carry with significantly more care and respect. Black fingertips brushed against Ramiel’s coat and Hero flinched instinctively, but the ink didn’t jump or spread. Probity had been accurate in her clinical assessment, at least that far.

  Probity came over to Hero’s side and fussed briefly over Brevity. The snarling defensive impulse was still jumping underneath Hero’s skin, so he was very glad when Ramiel checked Claire’s pulse and met his gaze with a silent nod.

  Hero wasted no time rising to his feet with Brevity in his arms and executing a graceful turn that might have accidentally whacked Probity in the face with his elbow. The raven was still cussing up a storm over their heads and seemed to follow them down the aisle to the Arcane Wing doors.

  Hero led the way, a little relieved to have Probity at his back in order to cool his strange rage. It felt like a silent agreement that they should get Claire and Brevity back to the Unwritten Wing, where they could rest in safety and as far away from the black pool as possible.

  The pool wasn’t just black. It was a reservoir of unwritten ink, if Probity was right. The strange wonder of that warred with the gnawing fear of what had just happened—had almost happened. Hero navigated the hallways in a daze as he tried to make that align in his head. And it occurred to Hero that not once, throughout the entire ordeal, had Probity referred to Claire by her name.

  * * *

  * * *

  NEWS TRAVELED FAST AMONG the damsels. It traveled even faster when related by Rosia, who had not drowned but instead burst into the damsel suite sobbing about ghosts. Half the Library—at least, half of the characters that were up and walking around—was assembled in the lobby when they arrived. The damsels took charge immediately, ensconcing Claire and Brevity in the suite itself and kicking Probity, Ramiel, and Hero out with the efficiency of hardened combat medics.

  Damsels were really astonishingly, aggressively pushy, in Hero’s opinion.

  Still, it allowed him a moment to reassemble himself. He accepted a cup of tea from a helpful damsel—young boy, monk’s robes, probably some failed author’s idea of a mystical sidekick, poor kid—and sank back in his chair. Brooding didn’t come naturally to him, but thankfully Probity had disappeared into the stacks and left him with only Rami for company, grand king of the brooders. They swam in the relative silence for the length of half a cup of tea.

  It was a disappointment but not a surprise when Ramiel’s cup landed heavily on the table with a click. “We have a problem.” He met Hero’s gaze with earnest not-quite-silver eyes.

  Hero was distantly aware that there was some technical difference between an angel and a Watcher, but whatever it was, it was lost on him. Ramiel might not have had the Heavenly refinement and light of angels in books, but there was no mistaking what he was. Being near Ramiel was like trying to stand next to the sun. Immortal creatures like angels had their own gravity, and Hero constantly felt the subtle tug around Ramiel. Hero’s usual nature was about as biddable as a cat with a migraine, and the feeling of an eternal slow draw irritated and got under his skin. This only served to make Hero even less prone to charity than usual.

  “My word, is that the stunning conclusion you’ve come to?” Hero let his voice drip with mockery. It was easier to pick a target—any target—than to try to figure out what the existence of ink and Claire’s unknown condition meant to himself or the future of his book. He rolled the teacup in his palms. “Heaven truly lost a master strategist when you fell.”

  “I was a soldier,” Ramiel said simply. He didn’t rise to the bait; he never did. He had an infuriating habit of looking at Hero, obviously finding him wanting, and gliding past as if he and he alone had some greater purpose. As if an insult from Hero was not even worth his concern.

  Hero’s insults were worth a king’s ransom, damn it. It was perhaps the only value he could rely on these days.

  Whatever Ramiel had been, he was an assistant now, just like Hero. That made them vaguely equals, he reminded himself. Allies, even. That moment with Rami backing him up with Probity had been nice. Had potential. Somewhere in the back of Hero’s mind was a distant plan starting to shuffle into view, but it veered too close to thinking about things he didn’t want to consider right now. He set it aside in favor of prodding the fallen angel.

  “And I was a rebellion leader and a king, facts that did no one a flick of good when magic ink we don’t understand decided to start eating our Arcanist.” That sentence had lost steam somewhere in the middle, and rather than feeling like a vicious stab, it just left Hero with a queasy feeling of worry. It was an unnatural and unwelcome sensation. Another thing to blame Claire for, when she woke up.

  If there was a sport he had trained for, it was guilt bearing. Rami heaved a sigh, proving he was already the champion. “You’re right, for once.” He leaned forward, intent. “So, what is it?”

  Hero choked on his tea. “What is what?”

  “The ink.” Rami’s brows created great trenches of concern above his silver eyes. It was unnerving when they focused entirely on you. “The muse seemed to think it was ink. Ink is the thing of books. So how does it work . . . ?”

  Surely Hero must have the answers. What kind of book didn’t know what he was made of, after all? Perhaps it was like other things he knew without knowing: the shape of a story, the wrongness of his book without him, the shiver a book had when it was close to waking up a character. He thought about the ink and reached for that well of intuition that always spouted up, from nowhere, to catch him where he fell short.

  Nothing caught this particular free fall. He knew nothing. He knew nothing at all. The idea that a story survived in the ink was no more or less ridiculous than anything else he’d suffered, but it stung somehow. He should know. What kind of character was he? Hero covered the dip in his stomach with a scoff and drained the last of his tea in one swig. “It’s a ridiculous question. Shall I ask you how your feathers work?”

  Rami’s mood lightened to something approaching earnest interest. “Celestial dynamics is straightforward to understand, really. If you compare it to the aerodynamics of earth-born birds—”

  “Please stop talking.” Hero buried his face in his hands.
Everyone told him to do the same often enough: stop talking. This was a punishment, wasn’t it? Was he being punished? Taunted by an ignorant angelic jock and a pool of black liquid potential that should have shown him a reflection where he only saw a question mark? It was wicked and devious, even for Hell.

  Hero considered it a minor miracle, then, when Brevity burst out of the gloom of the stacks like an ambitious sunrise, trailed by a curious gaggle of muses and—the knot in Hero’s chest eased a little—a drawn-looking Claire. Ink-stained, hunted-looking, but awake.

  “Claire’s okay, I’m okay, et cetera and so on—” Brevity impatiently headed off their questions. “We got an idea. A really awful idea, but, well— Rami, Hero, on your feet.”

  4

  CLAIRE

  Repaired another cover today. The leather had begun to wear along the rail line. I wonder why the books choose leather. It’s not as if there are hell-cows for hide, are there? (Are there?) They could be clapboard- or linen-covered hardbacks or—saints forbid—paperback. But it’s leather, tanned leather.

  An early method of preparing leather for book covers was to cure it covered in wet tea leaves and bark—tanning comes from the word “tannins.” Tea and words have always been steeped together, down to the bones. I preferred coffee when I was alive, but Claire drinks this stuff by the pot: to refresh, to fortify, she says. Maybe the English knew something about the Library after all. We’re preserving ourselves from the inside, sip by sip.

  Librarian Gregor Henry, 1987 CE

  REGAINING CONSCIOUSNESS WAS A scandal. Claire did not so much wake up as fling herself from one awareness to another. She jolted upright and was only stopped from falling over again by a pair of gentle hands. Fire thudded from her head and dribbled through every joint. It was as if every ache and pain of normal aging Claire had been spared for the last thirty years had come home to roost. “Oh, hellfire and harpies.” She rubbed her wrists tenderly. One was bandaged; that was to be expected. “Someone get me a hot compress and half a bottle of paracetamol.”

  Claire knew Hell had no such thing. She had honestly expected Brevity and a clatter of teacups, not a weary sigh and a low voice full of amusement.

  “If only I could.”

  Claire abruptly forgot about her joint pain. The hold on her shoulders was the only thing that kept her reclined on the couch. The cushions beneath her had a familiar feel, and Claire’s careening mind distantly placed it as a piece of Library furniture. Which did not mesh with the sight of Beatrice perched on the edge looking wary as a feral cat.

  “Beatrice.” Claire struggled not to reel again. “What— You are in Malta. You can’t—”

  “I really can’t,” Beatrice agreed amiably. Claire’s unwritten character wore the same rumpled suit vest she’d had on when Claire had seen her last in Malta, sans the dirt and blood. Beatrice appeared perfectly recovered from the adventure that had left her on Earth, hair swept in that careless crop of curls that looked soft enough to make Claire’s fingers ache again. There was a smudged look about her, an air Claire couldn’t quite place, though she tried. Beatrice tucked the blanket back around Claire’s lap while simultaneously giving her the chance to gawk.

  “You can’t—” Claire repeated, finally taking in her surroundings. They were in the damsel suite, which showed signs of swift evacuation. Open books and half-eaten nibbles were strewn across the tables, and on the end table nearest her, steam still wafted faintly from an overbrewed cup of tea. Claire rescued the strainer on impulse, though the tea had obviously gone bitter. She stuck her finger in her mouth, allowing the acidic bite of the tannins to try to clear her head.

  “I was arguing with Brevity, there was a— Oh gods, we fought—and the ink—” Claire jerked her hands up. Her right hand was swaddled in a tea towel. Claire wiggled her fingers free. The entire fingertip, skin, nail, and all, was stained black. It had a shine to it, an oil-slick feel as if it were still wet, though when she wiped her index finger on the tea cloth, nothing was left behind.

  “I touched the ink. This stain . . .” Claire said blankly. She peeled back the towel, following the discoloration up, over her knuckles, past her wrist, until it came to an abrupt halt just below the crook of her elbow. It jutted right up to a border of iridescent blue, which appeared to be made of different stuff, shimmering like a propane pilot light.

  “She thought quick, to do that,” Beatrice said quietly.

  Claire resisted the impulse to pick at it, no matter how foreign it was on her skin. “Who did? Brevity?”

  “No, the other one. Though I think she wouldn’t have acted if she hadn’t been prompted to.” Beatrice gave her a considering look. “You have a very loyal assistant in that girl. I’m glad.”

  “She’s not my assistant anymore.” It was a bitter kind of reflex, and Claire shook her head. “She’s Librarian now, and—” Claire stopped, feeling eight kinds of idiotic. “Hell and harpies, we’re in the damsel suite. In the Library. Why—how are you here? You shouldn’t be here. You would never return here after all that’s happened. You escaped. Did Brev force you to come back? How long have I been out? Did—”

  “Calm down, Claire.” Beatrice seemed remarkably unflustered by being in the very place she’d fled decades ago. “No one brought me here except you. I think I never fully left.”

  Claire blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “And I don’t have much time to explain. I convinced the others that you would need time to understand, but they’re restless. Naturally.” A muffled sound, like a wave of small feet, stirred from somewhere outside the suite door. Beatrice sighed. “I need you to stay calm.”

  “I am always calm!” The ache in Claire’s joints was returning, with a building kind of pressure. As if there was suddenly more stuffed into her than before. She rubbed her face. “I forgot how exhausting you were. Forget it. We’ve got to get you out of here and back to the Silent City. It should be possible, while the others are distracted. There’s too much going on.”

  “More than you think,” Beatrice said. She nodded to Claire’s banded arm. “That thing is like a magical tourniquet, but it’s not going to hold forever. You need to stop wasting time.”

  Claire’s mouth dropped open, but before she could protest, a knock came at the door. It was a light, tentative knock, then slowly repeated. The brass door handle began to jiggle.

  Beatrice froze, staring at the door before turning an intent frown on Claire. “Listen to me. You need to listen. It’s the only way the books will have any rest.”

  “As I said, I’m not the li—”

  “I don’t care if you’re not the goddamned librarian!” Beatrice grabbed Claire’s shoulder but pulled back when she flinched. “You’re not the librarian, you’re not an author, you’re not alive. Who bloody cares! You think your characters do? I certainly didn’t. Your friend Hero didn’t. You don’t escape your own story, Claire. It’s impossible.”

  “What kind of nonsense are you talking about?”

  The door abruptly ceased its rattling, and Beatrice’s shoulders tensed. Across the room, the damsel suite door unlatched and crept slowly open on silent hinges. The darkness on the other side of the door was inky and absolute. An unnatural sigh of air washed through, ruffling the pages of open books and chilling Claire to the core. Beatrice sat in front of her like a shield, but it was as if she weren’t even there. The room felt crowded with breath.

  Her lungs were chilled when Claire tried to take a breath and try again. “What—what are you asking me to do?”

  Beatrice finally turned back to her, looking solemn and sorry. It felt too much like how she’d looked the last time Claire had seen her, half-swallowed in torchlight as she hesitated at the precipice of a realm gate. Hesitated, to stay behind. When Beatrice brought her hand to her face, Claire flinched.

  “Wake up,” Beatrice said in a voice that wasn’t her own. Claire was fal
ling, and it felt like something new and horrible and cold was blooming in her bones. Beatrice’s voice splintered and turned fractal. “Wake up, Claire. Wake up.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “WAKE UP! PLEASE, C’MON, boss.” Claire’s joints still ached. The settee was still soft beneath her. But the next breath she took gave her a lungful of warm air scented with familiar anise, paper, and tea. She opened her eyes.

  “Oh, harpies, you’re back. That’s good.” Brevity’s nose was an inch from her own before she withdrew with a sigh. “The boys woulda murdered me if you didn’t wake up.”

  “Was there doubt?” Claire grimaced at the sawdust in her voice. She gestured and Brevity helpfully handed her a glass of water. She was still in the damsel suite, resting on a settee. It was occupied again, with a handful of damsels studiously pursuing their hobbies and not at all scrutinizing Claire with absolute self-righteous judgment out of the corners of their eyes. Ridiculous. Claire could hear the sidelong whispering. “Gods, how long have I been out this time?”

  “This time?” A small furrow knit in Brevity’s brows. “Not long. You fainted—we both did—when Probity did her thing. It stopped the ink, though. I . . .” Brevity looked down. “How do you feel?”

  “Like the inside of a Hellhound’s mouth.” Claire sipped the water and grimaced.

  “So about the same as me.” Brevity gave her a wan smile. Now that Claire was sitting up, she could take the time to observe the paper-thin energy of Brevity’s smile and the shadows under her eyes. For a moment it was overlaid with the memory of a handsome brown face exhorting her to wake up, to—

  Claire yanked her arm out from under the covers and cursed loudly. Black stained her skin, held off by a ribbon of bright blue tied off below her elbow. She set down her water and gently pushed Brevity back by the shoulder until she could see the arm she kept half cradled against her stomach. Structurally, nothing appeared to be wrong. Brevity’s arm certainly appeared in better shape than Claire’s. But a paler band of periwinkle swirled on her forearm where her inspiration gilt tattoo had been. It looked almost as if it had been scrubbed away. Or stripped.