Just like me.
With Caz scouting through the cottage, she reminded herself that she wasn’t alone. And she hadn’t been abandoned, at least not deliberately. Her family had moved to the capital city to follow their dreams and to give her the opportunity to pursue hers. They hadn’t intended to leave her—they’d died from an illness that no one could have predicted or prevented. After that, she had chosen voluntarily to throw herself into her work at the library. As for finding herself without family or friends beyond a self-aware spider plant . . . that had merely happened over time.
Like the dust, the dirt, the leaves, and the cobwebs sneaking in here, over time. Okay, yes, she was a lot like this cottage. She could admit to the aptness of the metaphor.
“It can be cleaned up,” Kiela said. “Made homelike.”
She’d start by finding a safe place to store the spellbooks. Perhaps in her parents’ bedroom. For now, the books could stay in the crates, but she’d make sure the back room was sealed against leaks and drafts before she set up shelves. And she’d have to ensure they were kept safe from prying eyes as well. It would not do for anyone to discover them. What if they tried to take them from her? What if they were afraid of the emperor’s wrath and tried to destroy them? Or worse, what if theyweren’tafraid and tried to use them? She was fully aware that having the books was an enormous responsibility. Many were the only copies that existed, which made them irreplaceable and priceless, and all were original works, which meant they had none of the errors that occurred in copying. Given the destruction she’d witnessed, she might possess the last of the greatest treasure of the Crescent Islands Empire. The books had to be protected, first and foremost.
She had to prioritize what was most important, after all.
And it would be nice if no one noticed that she’d kind of, sort of, stolen them.
Hauling the crates of boxes up the stone steps, Kiela regretted shooing away their new friendly, muscly neighbor. He could have carried a lot of books, though he probably would have asked why she had so many, where she’d gotten them, and were they all hers. Really, it was best if she did this herself.
She’d liberated some excess line from the boat and looped it around the crates. The wheels helped on the dock, which miraculously held, but when she reached the stone steps . . . After some contemplation, she had a solution. Not agoodsolution, but a serviceable one:
Her parents’ bedroom door, which was already off its hinges, would act as a ramp.
After fetching the door and laying it over the bottom few steps, she put her plan into action. Shoving with all her might, she rolled the first crate up the ramp/door, rested it (very precariously) on the steps, hurriedly moved the door to cover the next set of steps, and repeated the procedure until she reached level ground in front of the cottage. And then she did it again for the next crate. By the time she’d finished transporting all the crates, she was soaked in sweat, and all her muscles felt wobbly. Her back was screaming at her, as were her calves, and her head throbbed. She missed the library lift.
In retrospect, it might have been easier to unpack the crates and carry the books in stacks up the steps. It would have required a lot of trips, but perhaps it would have spared the door. And her back, calves, and head. Of course, she didn’t think of that until after the task was complete and after she’d also hauled up the sack of provisions and supplies she’d brought.
Kiela stumbled inside to see that Caz had been busy as well. Using his tendrils, he’d swept everywhere he could reach. All the twigs, leaves, and other debris were piled in one corner, the cobwebs were gone from the rafters, and the dust . . . well, it was mostly all over him.
“Now we both need baths,” Kiela said.
His leaves drooped.
“But it was worth it,” she added quickly. The front room wasn’t clean yet, but it was vastly improved. She could see the wood grain of the floor, as well as the color of the chairs—a deep earth brown. Acorns and flowers had been carved into the chair backs, and the woven seats were frayed but still whole. The daybed, stripped of the dusty quilt and no longer overwhelmed by leaves and branches, looked almost like a place one could lie down, rather than a nest for an enormous mouse. “You made phenomenal progress.”
He perked back up.
Kiela crossed to the kitchen sink. It had a pump that used to draw from a well. Theoretically, it should still work. If it didn’t, she remembered a stream in the forest that fed into the waterfall near the village, and there was a bucket for bailing out water in the boat. She could use that if she needed to. She didn’t, though, relish the idea of hauling water the entire way to the cottage every time she wanted to bathe or not die of dehydration. Looking out the window over the sink, she tried to see the forest, but the glass was laced with vines. All she could see was green, pierced by slivers of sunlight.
“Are you going to work for us?” she asked the pump. It was made of cast iron, and it curved over a brass basin. An old kitchen towel hung from a rack on the side of the sink, and the counter was bare except for a few jars and a glass pitcher. She remembered her mother used to put fresh flowers in that pitcher.
Behind her, Caz asked, “Are you talking to an inanimate object? Because that’s odd.”
“Says the talking plant.”
“Ouch.”
Steeling herself, she raised and lowered the handle. No water. Not even a trickle or a drip or a hint that it was doing anything. She raised and lowered it again. And again.
At last, she heard a distant gurgle.
She pumped harder, and it squeaked with the effort. After five more pumps, a blast of brownish water spurted out of the faucet and splashed into the sink. Surprised, she jumped back.
“That’s it,” Caz said to the pump, “you can do it!”
Kiela pumped again. Soon, the water flowed clear and cold. She cupped her hands and drank it. It was sweeter and crisper than any water she’d tasted in Alyssium.
She found one of her mother’s old dish towels that had been left behind, rinsed out the dust, and then used it to wash as much of herself as she could. She shivered as the cold water touched her skin, but she gritted her teeth and washed off all the grime and sweat. Half the towel was black when she finished, and she realized it was soot from the burning city.
For an instant, Kiela could only stare at it.
Until this moment, she hadn’t let herself truly think about it: the loss of the library, her home, her life. The loss of all those homes and lives. And the books . . . She knew she should care more about the people of Alyssium than the books, but the spellbooks had been her family, the library had been her home, and her work had been her life.
