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.