Page 368

So we copy. Again. Of course. Apparently my life is now copying old documents under time pressure. At least this basement has chairs.

We split the work. Dates. Locations. Exact terminology. Names. Descriptions. No assumptions. No summaries. Everything.

By the time we finish, my hand cramps. Nyra's fingers are stained with ink. Cassian has stopped making jokes. Caelen has filled nine pages. Rhyven twelve.

I finish my final line. Flex my fingers. Look toward Rhyven. He's still writing. There is a cut across one knuckle. Probably training. Or patrol. Or one of the thousand things he does without mentioning. A thin line of dried blood marks the skin. His ink is nearly empty. Without thinking, I slide mine across the table. It stops beside his hand. Rhyven looks at it. Then at me."What."

"You need ink."

"I have ink."

"Three drops."

He looks at his bottle. Then mine. Then me again.

I raise an eyebrow. "Don't make this emotional."

Something changes in his eyes. Tiny. Then he takes it.

"Thank you."

"Welcome." I return to my pages. I don't see his expression afterward. I feel his gaze for another second. Then the scratch of his pen resumes.

By the time we return upstairs, afternoon sunlight fills the library. Warm. Golden. Normal. I almost resent it. Mistress Marr takes our basement key.

Nyra hesitates. "Can we come back?"

The librarian looks at her. "You signed the ledger."

"That's not an answer."

"No." Nyra's face falls. Mistress Marr's mouth twitches. "Which means you'll probably return anyway." Nyra smiles. Victory.

Before we leave, Rhyven stops beside the front desk.

"The Council confiscated books."

Mistress Marr looks at him. "Attempted."

"Which ones?"

"Three military histories."

"Titles?" She names them. None mean anything to me. Rhyven remembers them. I can tell. "Why?"

Mistress Marr shrugs. "They claimed preservation."

"You don't believe them."

"I've preserved books longer than most Council members have been alive." Fair.

"Anything else?" Rhyven asks.

Mistress Marr studies him. "One map."

Nyra turns. "What map?"

"Old regional ward lines." My stomach drops slightly.