But hand tightening on my scythe, I lingered.
Because the librarian started to sing along. To Taylor fucking Swift—of course.
Not like me not to want to cover my nonexistent ears and maybe, I don’t know,melt.
But… the librarian had a good voice. A beautiful voice, actually.
On a nearby armchair, next to a tote stuffed with picture books, sat a ukelele covered in goddamn glittery stickers, one of its strings popped. A packet of unopened replacement strings lay on the coffee table next to a pair of reading glasses.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
The librarian went into the chorus, her voice carrying over the rush of water.
I deliberated.
Because it wasn’t like I didn’t have time.
Shesure didn’t.
Damnit.
Grinding my teeth, I left my scythe standing where it was while I went to pluck up the instrument. I examined it, turning it over between bony hands. The other strings seemed okay.
I sat down next to the fucking pineapple, and balancing the ukelele on my knees, I replaced the broken string. I’d snapped enough inmy afterlife—more than I could count—that the repair only took a minute.
As the librarian’s playlist switched over to some lively and unbearable show tune, I stood and replaced the instrument. Then I returned to collect my scythe.
Glowering down at the pineapple, I aimed a bone finger at it.
“Not a fucking word,” I said, before vanishing.
This nightly check-in, touch-and-go setup was hardly ideal. But I was convinced Cedric had somehow deduced the missing soulwasmy doing, and that I was now trying to cover my tracks.
His plan perhaps was to catch me in the act of rescuing the librarian or to somehow capture evidence to present against me, thereby paving the way for him to get rid of me and, at long last, assume my role himself.
If so, that was indeed a surer plan than informing Sir White outright of my impudence.
In that instance, I would at least have the ever-useful tool of plausible deniability on my side. If, however, Cedric managed to produce evidence—or even somehow the missing soul itself? Well, at the very least, he would be providing proof that I’d been willfully derelict in my duties.
All of this increased the pressure to find a way to smuggle the librarian’s soul into the White Basin. I dared not remove said soul from its living vessel, though, until I devised a way to deliver her to that Basin undetected. Something I was still working on. Because it would be far worse for me if I was found in possession of the missing soul.
So long as the librarian lived, I could, at the very least and as a last resort, feign ignorance in the event of an inquisition.
When midnight came again, I approached the librarian’s apartment building, the glow of too many streetlamps forbidding all but a few patches of shadow for me to hide in should she happen to glance outside.
Per usual, her absurd car dwelled in its designated slot tucked beneath a long port.
But her darkened living room window did not flicker with pale light.
Stationed in the cover of a willow, its curtaining screen of golden leaves half illuminated by the streetlight, I hesitated—then called.
She answered right away, her voice having grown familiar to me—something decidedlyunfamiliarsince I only ever spoke at length with Flora, Johann, and, unless I could avoid it, Cedric.
“Don’t hang up,” she said, breathless. “Please.”
I should end the call. I had the answer I sought. Her car proved she was home. Her voice confirmed she was not in distress. That plea in her tone, though, had me acquiescing to her request despite my better judgment. A judgment Ineededto start heeding.
Something about her had me throwing every “should” aside.
