The Archive of the Forgotten

by A J Hackwith

  “It’s fine,” Brevity said too quickly into the silence. “Hurt like a cuss going off, but we both got a nap out of it and now we’re fine, see?”

  Claire shook her head. “But how—?”

  “Probity explained it to me. Later.” Brevity’s nervous hands skimmed over her bare forearm before she reverted to studying her fingernails. “We can’t get the ink out of you but because of what they’re made of, the inspiration gilt can hold it back. It works kinda like a—”

  “Like a magical tourniquet,” Claire finished.

  Brevity’s brows inched up. “Well, yes. But how—”

  “Never mind that.” The damsels in the room were studiously ignoring them, but Claire could hear the whispers. The constant whorl of rumor around her was beginning to give her a headache. She tried to focus. “You said what it’s made of. You have a theory about the . . . the—”

  “Ink,” Brevity supplied, when Claire couldn’t quite assign the word. “We know it’s ink now. More importantly, its unwritten ink—”

  “We can’t know that,” Claire objected, but Brevity was already shaking her head.

  “We do. I do. I can see—it looks the same way books do, to muses. Probity saw it too. It’s the ink of an unwritten book. Books. Maybe a lot of them.”

  Claire was caught off guard by the bitterness that came with answers. Brevity had identified and handled the mystery with Probity. An outsider, and a muse who seemed to have even more history with Brevity than Claire did. She’d already felt as if she’d fallen out of sync, and there was nowhere for her to get a handhold. She studied Brevity. She knew her face well enough to see the hope starting to form. Many books. Brevity was thinking of the lost damsels. She had to nip that in the bud. “It could be many things.”

  “No,” Brevity said, clipped and firm. “It can’t.” She gave a surprisingly dismissive gesture to Claire’s arm. “You can keep on ignoring the obvious or you can trust me. As a former muse. As . . . librarian.”

  The whispers that drifted around the room really were nonstop. Claire had always been aware that damsels were talkative and—in her opinion—prone to too much gossip, but they could at least have the decency to wait until she’d left the room. Claire rubbed her temple. “Of course I trust you,” she said, wondering why it sounded like such a weak defense. “But the idea that the ink of a story can exist outside its book is . . .”

  “A lot, I know.”

  Brevity had lowered her voice, to be kind, to be patient. To be sympathetic of Claire, the poor human who just couldn’t keep up. The ache in her head ratcheted up along with her temper.

  “I am perfectly capable—” The whispers intruded again. Gods. Claire’s patience snapped. “Could you all just shut up for one bloody minute?!”

  She hadn’t meant to yell. She hadn’t meant many things. But Claire’s voice thudded into the silence. Every pair of eyes, discreetly turned away, focused on her. A teapot clinked, and someone dropped their crochet hook.

  “Claire.” Brevity’s touch was featherlight to her shoulder, but Claire still startled. Brevity was looking at her with fresh concern and a new brush of caution. “No one’s said anything but us.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I could hear them whispering perfectly—” Permitted to glare around the room straight on, Claire got a clear look. There were only a handful of damsels in the large lounge, scattered and not numerous enough for the voices she’d heard. There was a woman crocheting what appeared to be a star map by the fire, one sole girl napping in an armchair, and a young boy eating jam tarts by the tea table. No one was huddled, or even appeared engaged in conversation. Let alone clandestine whispers.

  A foggy, distant sound she could hear, even now, as everyone stared at her mutely. She’d dreamed of Beatrice and imagined voices that weren’t there. Claire had always counted on her perceptions being reliable, and a sticky disgrace settled into her stomach. She tentatively touched her clean fingertips to her stained wrist. They came away dry. “My mistake.”

  Brevity, of course, was the first to smooth things over. “No prob. It’s been a rough day for all of us,” she said simply, then appeared to hesitate. “I know the guys are probably plotting ways to make us rest, but I had an idea, if you’re up for an experiment.”

  “Blood and ink, please.” Claire needed something, anything, right now to get her out of this eerie damsel suite and propelled along any path that would start making sense of this.

  “I’m going to need a sample of the ink to test—safely this time. If there’s anything left of an unwritten story in it, we’ll probably have better luck testing it on something native to the Library.”

  Claire struggled to follow that thought. Brevity would never test on a precious Library book, but that only left one thing. There was only one book inherent to the Library that wasn’t an unwritten story.

  “The logbook. But it’s not like the other books in the Library. No originating author, for one.” Claire drew in a sharp breath. “Using the Librarian’s Log book as a test subject is . . . unprecedented. Dangerous.”

  Brevity met her eyes, wary, as if it was a test. Everything felt like a test between them these days, a test of boundaries, a test of respect. It made Claire’s chest ache, but Brevity just straightened to her feet cautiously. “Librarian’s prerogative.” And then, perhaps because she saw the minuscule flinch Claire tried to hide, she attempted to soften it. “I learned from the best, after all.”

  5

  BREVITY

  I’ve had a few weeks to get used to it now: being dead. Dead, and a librarian at that. Not even death stops the world from expecting a woman to take care of things. At least it’s not eternity at the cook fire.

  There was supposed to be another, here in the Library. I’ve gleaned that much, from what the demons have said. The Arcanist is a glum living statue. She doesn’t like me much, but it appears she has as much say in the matter as I do. She says there was a librarian before—an experienced one who would have trained me, taught me all the secrets of this place. She’s gone. Exiled? Doubly dead? Deposed? I’m not certain, only that everyone is terribly mute as to why.

  The Arcanist, Revka, says I’ll just have to pick up the basics. As much as she doesn’t like me, there’s a deep sadness in her, stone heart and all. I’d like to say I was kind enough not to ask, but I’m not—I was told off for my troubles.

  They say this is supposed to be a library, a salon of learned words. But it doesn’t feel like a library. It feels like a tomb.

  Librarian Madiha al-Fihri, 602 CE

  RAMI AND HERO HAD, in fact, objected to their plan.

  They’d objected—loudly, in Hero’s case—and expressed their concerns—gravely, in Rami’s case—and then Claire and Brevity had done, as always, what they thought was best. It was almost like working together again. Almost.

  The pond of ink had not moved since they left it. It lapped silently against the broken boards at the same level it had been before. Normal liquid might have evaporated, or sunk into porous wood and whatever the bedrock of Hell was made of. Instead, the surface lay flush with the broken wood floorboards, black against beech. Claire allowed Brevity to handle the gloves, tongs, and vial as a small acquiescence to Rami’s demands. The unease in Claire’s eyes was enough to convince Brevity this was no time for indulging muse curiosity—she came only close enough to the edge of the liquid as was necessary to stopper a vial full. The rubber cork popped on the top, and that was that.

  The trip back to the Unwritten Wing was quick and amiable. Brevity let Claire carry the sample, once the vial had been scrupulously wiped and she was certain every smidge of ink was contained. Perhaps the mystery in the bottle would repair some of the unspoken rift that had divided Claire from her since the coup. Perhaps this was all that was needed—a common mystery, a common task. Brevity entertained that hope with a growing certainty.

 
The liquid in the vial bobbled. That’s how Brevity knew that Claire had hesitated a step—just a fraction of a step—just as they turned the corner and the Unwritten Wing doors came into view.

  “Claire?” Brevity asked when she didn’t say anything.

  “It’s nothing. No—sorry.” Claire fiddled with the dangerous sample in her hand as she apologized. Both actions being wildly uncharacteristic, enough that Brevity stopped in her tracks. Claire shook her head dismissively. “I saw it before; I just keep forgetting. . . . Thirty years is a lot to unlearn.”

  Brevity glanced uncertainly to the doors, and her stomach did a flip as pieces fell into place. Understanding doused the warm feeling in her chest. The Unwritten Wing had changed to suit its new librarian, just as the Arcane Wing had accommodated Claire. To Brevity, it’d felt like the Library’s small way of welcoming her. The doors were a soft ruddy color that reminded Brevity of sunsets, accented by the crisp silver in the handles. Strings of faerie lights just inside the door washed the entrance in a gentle kind of glow.

  But Brevity could see it now through Claire’s eyes, and that empathy threw it all into sharp, alien relief. The changes Brevity had made to the Unwritten Wing no longer felt cheery—they felt garish. Cherry-stained wood a shade too red and bright, faerie lights illuminating the aisles cheap instead of cozy. A plastic imitation of the distinguished Library that Claire had known. Brevity’s heart tilted and fell between her ribs. She kept her face tilted down as she hurried across the lobby to her desk.

  “Just a minute . . .” There was one thing that didn’t change along with the Library, and maybe that’d smooth over the knot of awkwardness forming in Brevity’s chest. She rifled around in the drawer until she came up with a thick, battered-looking book.

  The Librarian’s Log had a blotchy leather cover the precise color of mistakes—ink smudges and the shadow of grubby fingerprints—with enough scuffs and scars that left the surface feeling more like bark than cured leather. It wasn’t the largest book in the Library, but it still took Brevity both hands to wrestle it out and drop it onto the blotter with a solid whump that echoed to the high ceilings.

  “Open it up, if you would.” Claire carefully found an empty teacup to balance the vial upright in. Brevity wasn’t as tidy about her desk as Claire. Clutter was conducive to thinking. At least that’s what she told Hero when he got on her about it.

  Brevity flipped open the log, not bothering to be precise. The logbook always flopped open to the necessary page. Sometimes, your definition of “necessary” didn’t line up with the log’s, but Brevity had decided long ago that trusting the book was part of a librarian’s job too. Letting books take you where they might—that was one part of the Library’s magic. The other part was the centuries of log entries from past Unwritten Wing librarians, all in perfectly readable script, no matter the age or the originating language, never in reliable order, but also never an end to empty pages, no matter how much you wrote. The log contained everything from inventories of books to an index of techniques and research and, of course, the personal log of the librarian and their assistant.

  Books were a kind of magic everywhere. Especially here, especially this book.

  Claire rummaged in her pocket until she found a fountain pen. Brevity preferred the honest feel of charcoal on paper, but for some reason Claire had always preferred the modern inventions. Not too modern, mind you. Brevity once filched some standard ballpoint pens to bring back to Claire as a surprise. You would have thought she’d deposited a dead snake on her desk instead.

  Of course, that’d been back when Claire was the librarian. Stern and unwilling to engage with the world. Getting a smile back then had felt like wresting the sword from the stone. But she’d been kind to Brevity, and she’d softened since then. She’d exhibited kindness, even toward books like Hero. But the smiles she gave Brevity now—only Brevity—were tight-lipped, reined in. It felt like Brevity had become one of her ghosts.

  “You’ve kept up admirably,” Claire murmured as she ran a finger down the displayed log entries. It was a consoling, awkward comment, and Brevity tried to remind herself Claire might feel as out of sorts with this moment as she did.

  Brevity straightened and smiled. “Never liked log work, but Hero’s handwriting is atrocious.”

  “All those flourishes,” Claire hissed, and Brevity’s smile brightened.

  “Everything short of dotting his i’s with hearts.”

  “It’s not handwriting; it’s script.” Hero emerged from the stacks near the door, Probity and Ramiel in tow. They’d agreed—reluctantly—to speak with the damsels and make sure there would be no curious onlookers for a second experiment with the ink. Probity, as usual, kept her thoughts to herself, but there was a disgruntled air between the men, obvious and palpable immediately. Brevity offered a questioning look, but Rami just hunched his shoulders while Hero put all his energy into propping himself against the desk. He had never met a piece of furniture he couldn’t lounge against. “I guess I should be grateful you lot even know cursive.”

  “There’s nothing innately better about something just because it’s old,” Brevity said.

  “Precisely,” Claire murmured, squinting as she concentrated on touching the pen nib just to the surface of the liquid in the vial. It wicked up the groove, just as ink should. And colors rippled and fluttered across the metal, just as ink should not. Hero’s eyes lit up, an intense speculation sparking in his eyes as he considered the liquid. It was a relief when Probity gave a low whistle and raised her eyes to meet Brevity’s. She reveled in the affirmation, someone else seeing what see saw, for a change. Being the only former muse in the room was so exhausting sometimes.

  Claire withdrew the nib and gave Brevity an inquiring glance, pen hovering over the paper. Claire, with a fountain pen in her hand again. Nib loaded with ink, clutched—carefully—in a black-stained hand. It felt wrong. A chill crept up Brevity’s neck, and she nodded quicker than she needed to dispel it. Claire took a breath and lowered the pen. The colors whipped over her hand like mist, the tip of the nib touched the logbook’s parchment, and several things happened in a breath.

  The nib touched the page.

  Hero drew in a pinched gasp and stepped back just as Rami stepped forward.

  And the logbook began to smoke.

  Claire began a downward stroke with the pen, but the liquid moved of its own accord. It wicked deep into the parchment and pulled away from the nib. Black veins crept spiderwebs across the page on their own, tendrils encountering the edge and seeming to pulse once before the entire linework recoiled again. The veins left faint wisps of smoke and the air began to smell of burnt turpentine, as if the ink had been burned both in and out of the parchment hide. The ink coiled lazily, like an indecisive snake, splitting into fractal triskeles, then conjoined.

  Then writing began.

  “What . . .” Claire was frozen, pen to page as if she was afraid to break contact. Letters—script, Hero had called it, and Brevity could see the difference now, not calling this simple cursive—spun out across the page. Not in a continuous line of thought, but fragments, the ink seeming to jump from one thought to the next. Brevity could follow it all, not so much by the words but by the colors that burst, like quick-fading comets, through the smoke. A snippet of dialogue, a soft sunset, a warp of stars, a clang of swords, a shattered planet, a sigh against skin. The script filled the page, the ink seeming to multiply on itself. But it didn’t stop there; words crisscrossed, mashed, and fought where they intersected. Epilogue versus eponyms. Protagonist versus peril. Pivot versus plot. It filled up the page, blackening without stopping until the ink sopped through the parchment entirely. Still there were words, dreadful, impossible snatches of story that writhed and crested on the page like a swarm. Breaking, forming, breaking again. Over and over, splinters of stories without end.

  Iron and anise weltered in her mouth, searing her tongu
e. Brevity felt pulled, as if she was falling into the ink. The book had become a gateway, a door of potential, and if she just reached, reached, reached—

  She heard a strangled shriek. The ink disappeared. When had she stepped closer to the desk? She didn’t remember raising her hand, fingertips drifting toward the page. Claire shoved Brevity back, and the fountain pen went clattering across the floor. The logbook was still open, but its page was a creamy ivory expanse. No ink, no script, just the faint waft of turpentine and a wisp of smoke rising slowly off the page.

  Claire dropped heavily onto the edge of the desk. The hand she put up to her face was trembling. It was her left hand. Her right hand was clutched into a protective black fist against her stomach. Brevity herself was trembling, she just realized. She turned away and sought out Probity’s face. Her expression was cracked open with a soft wonder. She offered a hand and met Brevity’s gaze as if they’d just witnessed the holiest of miracles. Brevity scanned the floor before finding where the pen had rolled underneath an overstuffed chair. She picked it up and held the nib under the light. Whistle clean and shiny as brass, no ink.

  Disappointment lurched in her stomach for no reason she could think of. They still had the vial—hell, they had the whole well of it back in the Arcane Wing. But something instinctual in Brevity’s gut told her this ink was precious, should not be let go. Loud, Claire had said just before she fainted. That made sense now, so many stories—

  “We’ll bury it,” Claire said. Hero and Rami had been murmuring concern for a while, Brevity distantly recognized, but it was Claire’s grim voice that cut through the fog. “We’ll seal it up in the Arcane Wing. I’ll look into something permanent enough that the damsels won’t keep sniffing it out.”