Anchored in slips beneath the library, the boats were used to transport books to and from select patrons on nearby islands. Each had silver sails, tied tight around its boom, and a black-cherry hull wide enough to transport multiple crates of books but sleek enough to be sailed by a single librarian. She herself had used one just last winter to deliver a full set of scholar Cypavia’sExaminations of the Function of Forest Spirits in Fact and Fictionto a bedridden emeritus sorcerer. He’d had his housekeeper offer her a cup of tea as thanks, but she’d declined, wanting to hurry back to the comfort of her stacks.At least those books are safe.That was only a slight consolation, though, compared to the wealth of knowledge in peril above her.
She’d already filled her boat with the first four crates of books, secured beneath a tarp. Maneuvering the half-filled fifth crate onto the boat, she strapped it in. There was room for at least three more crates, but there wasn’t time to fetch them. She wished she’d sorted books faster. Or been less picky. She wished she’d packed more provisions. She’d stowed a few jugs of water, as well as jars of preserved peaches, a bag of dried beans, and a sack of pecans. For Caz, she had a tub of fresh soil that he could replenish himself in, and she’d also hidden a couple changes of clothes for herself, as well as a few blank notebooks just in case. But she hadn’t emptied her cubicle in the library of her personal items. She thought wistfully of all she’d left—her old journals, her best quill set, a wooden carving in the shape of a mermaid that her parents had given her when she was a child. But Caz was right: better to save themselves. And the books.
We’ll come back when it’s safe,she thought.This is just temporary.
Climbing into the boat, Kiela untied the line and pushed off. She pulled out the pole for navigating the watery tunnels. The sails were wrapped up around the boom. They’d stay down until they reached the open water.
She wasn’t technically supposed to take the boat. Or the books. Or Caz. But there had been no one left to ask, and she reassured herself that they’d thank her later, when she returned. It wasn’t theft. It was her job: taking care of the collection.I’m just . . . broadening the definition.
She poled through the tunnels until they flowed out into the open canals of the city.
“Well, this is absolutely horrible,” Caz said.
Kiela had to agree.
The stars were blotted out by the smoke that rose from the bridges and spires. The flames cast everything in a ghoulish light, and the sour taste of the smoke coated the back of her throat. She felt it invading her lungs with each breath. Her sky-blue skin looked sickly in the unnatural light, and her dark blue hair soaked up the scent of smoke. Down on the canals, Kiela and Caz were free from the worst of it, but they weren’t free from the sights and sounds of death.
Later, she’d block out most of that horrible night: the screams, the corpses in the canals, the fear that choked her worse than the smoke. The trip through the canals felt endless, and the sounds traveled across the water even as they broke into the open sea.
With Caz’s help, Kiela raised the silver sails once the water was too deep for the pole. She’d learned how to sail as a small child and had delivered enough books scattered over the years to stay in practice, so she thankfully didn’t have to think to perform the tasks. Her hands remembered what to do, how to catch the wind in the canvas, how to speed away, away, away.
Behind them, the great city burned, with its people (both good and bad) and its history (both good and bad) and its books and its flowers. And she knew she wasn’t coming back.
As the sun rose over the sea, all pink and yellow and hopeful, Kiela resolved to look forward, not backward. There was no one in Alyssium who’d miss her—which was a depressing thought in and of itself. Really, no one?
Absorbed in her work, she hadn’t left the library for anything but the occasional book delivery in . . . Had it been years? Yes, years. After she’d finished school, she’d simply moved directly into a cubicle sandwiched between the stacks. It had been simpler that way. She hadn’t had to waste any time traveling to and from her work.
She had no family in the city, and she’d lost track of her classmates—they’d drifted off into their lives, and she’d fallen into the routine of hers. All her meals were delivered, prepared fresh at any hour. Scholars often kept odd hours, and therefore so did librarians. She merely had to send a request down the chute, and everything would arrive via lift in a timely manner. No interaction with anyone required. She’d considered it the perfect system.
The other librarians . . . They had their own work on other floors and in other wings. Kiela never liked to disturb anyone, and she had gently—so gently that she hadn’t even realized she was doing it—discouraged others from disturbing hers. As the sailboat bounced over the waves, she realized she hadn’t even spoken to another soul besides Caz in three weeks. The last person she’d talked to was a janitor whom she’d shooed away for stirring up dust near some particularly fragile manuscripts.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like people. It was only that she liked books more. They didn’t fuss or judge or mock or reject. They invited you in, fluffed up the pillows on the couch, offered you tea and toast, and shared their hearts with no expectation that you’d do anything more than absorb what they had to give.
All of which was very lovely, but it left her in a bit of a quandary: where to go, now that her old life had quite literally burned down. “Caz . . .” she began.
“Mmm,” he said, muffled.
She glanced across the boat to see he’d wedged himself between two of the crates and had wound his leaves tight around his root ball. “Caz, what are you doing?”
“Fish eat plants,” he said.
“Some fish, yes.” She wasn’t overly familiar with the dietary preferences of fish. She knew there were fish who liked kelp. She supposed they ate plankton too. Also, insects? “Some fish eat other fish.”
“Who eat plants.”
“I suppose so.”
“Everything eats plants,” Caz said. “But barely anything eats books. That’s why I’m positioning myself between the crates. No one will think of looking for a fresh, tasty morsel of green next to so many dead trees. So I am just going to stay here, with the books, until we get to wherever we’re going, which I hope won’t have fish, sheep, cows, or goats.” He shuddered at the word “goats,” and Kiela wondered if he’d had a bad experience with a goat or had just read about them.Most likely the latter.Livestock wasn’t permitted in the Great Library, for obvious reasons.
“That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” Kiela said. “We need a destination.”
“You . . . didn’t plan that out?”
“I didn’t think we’d really have to leave,” she admitted. “Or I thought, if we did, it would be just for a few hours or days. A week at most.” She’d thought they could rent a slip in a harbor at one of the nearby islands, perhaps Varsun or Iva, and stay for a couple days at one of the charming inns where the lesser nobles liked to vacation.
Caz sagged, his leaves drooping as if they’d never tasted water. “So did I.”
They sailed silently. It was a gloriously beautiful day for a sail. Light breeze. Cheerful lemon light flashing on the water. Seagulls flew overhead, cawing to one another. The many islands of the Crescent Islands Empire—if it was an empire anymore, thanks to the revolutionaries—looked peaceful from the distance, if you didn’t look back to where smoke still stained the sky over the capital city. The islands’ gray, white, and black cliffs were majestic, and the sweet little fishing villages looked quaint, with their brightly painted houses, cheerful gardens, and cobblestone streets. She and Caz could sail into one of their harbors and then—do what? She couldn’t afford an inn for more than a couple days. The coins that Kiela had brought with her wouldn’t go far. Even if she could pay the harbor fees, she didn’t relish living on the boat, day in and day out.
