I had bigger problems, though. He’d just revealed how Sir White knew the missing soul was among the Fated. Something I’d suspected since I’d been drawn to the site of her demise before it could occur. That was always a sign of a preordained death. Part of me had been hoping that, despite getting the call for her, she might, by some stroke of luck,notbe a Fated.
The fact that she was complicated the situation further because it meant her soul had somewhere else to be. Something else to do.
Whatever that something was,Ihad disrupted it.
Worse, I still couldn’t seem to understandwhy.
But the why—that didn’t matter anyway. Only the how. As in how I was going to rectify this… issue.
Since I’d never missed a soul before—on purposeoron accident—I hadn’t known until now what would happen if I did. Apparently, I’d get the call for the librarian again.
“Grim Grim, Grim is grim,” sang Pluto as I descended the spiralstairs, heading once more into the gloom of my quarters, the solution to this entire quandary seeming simple.
Collect her soul when the time comes and deliver it to the White Basin.
Except then Sir White would know one of ushadmissed a soul.
Since I would never let Flora or Johann take the fall for my indiscretion, I would have to admit to what I’d done.
But saving the life of a Fated and thus tampering with the fabric of the universe as a whole…
If that wasn’t grounds for dismissal… what was?
A flash of the murk of the Black Basin lashing my arm had those bones resonating with the remembered sensation.
Cedric’s words from earlier came back to haunt me, too.
That Basin. Clearly, if I was dismissed, thatwaswhere my soul would go.
I knew better than to think its waters led anywhere good. Or even tolerable.
Which meant that, when Iwassummoned back to the librarian to again collect her—and I would be—I was going to have to do something drastic. Even more drastic than before.
Until I could figure out a way to smuggle her soul, undetected, into the beyond, I was going to have to save her.
Again.
5HELENA
Awkward sauce at uncomfortable o’clock.
That was my thought as the elevator doors screech-slid open to reveal none other than Peter Winston, the library’s British archivist. The library’shotBritish archivist.
Relief poured through me, though, at the sight of the red-clad pizza-delivery lady standing next to him toting a fragrant, insulated bag full of pies, her face half lost beneath the visor of her crimson ball cap.
Until she offered me a nod and a ruby-painted smile before abandoning me, heading down the hall.
Probably, if I had to guess, to deliver reward pizzas for the HR office.
The children’s department sometimes got parties, too. In lieu, of course, of raises.
Or upgrades.
Or general supplies.
Like glue sticks.
Oh well. So much for having a buffer.
