Genevieve Cogman

“I think my point holds. People want stories. You should know that more than anybody. They want their lives to have meaning. They want to be part of something greater than themselves. Even you, Miss Winters, want to be a heroic Librarian—don’t you? And if you’re going to say that people need to have the freedom to be unhappy, something that’s forced on them whether they like it or not, I would question your motivation.” She paused for a single deadly second. “Most people don’t want a brave new world. They want the story that they know.”

She wasn’t actually going to lie, but there was…well, there might be an element of flexibility.

Irene hated trusting to luck. It was no substitute for good planning and careful preparation.

She did find that the books displayed prominently in every chamber had been dusted, but the spines were pristine and uncreased. They had the sad, untouched air of literature paraded for display purposes but never actually used.

It was profoundly depressing.

Here and there people sat at desks, carefully turning the pages of manuscripts, or unrolling scrolls and making notes. It comforted her. This is a place built to store books, by people who wanted to preserve books, and used by people who want to read those books. I am not alone.

“I met one (that is, a dragon) once,” Irene said.

“What did you talk about?”

“He complimented me on my literary taste.”

Kai blinked. “Doesn’t sound like a life-threatening sort of conversation.”

“Maybe it’s like being a parent,” she said, bringing up a Library map. “You never really see your children as adults.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Kai said, with the easy confidence of someone who hadn’t tested the issue yet.

The atmosphere of the place soothed her automatically; the rich lantern-lights, the sheer scent of paper and leather, and the fact that everywhere she looked, there were books, books, beautiful books.

“My brother and I used to live in Rome,” she invented.

“Rome.” The other woman turned up her nose a little. “Well, I suppose people have to live somewhere.”

There were so many possible logical holes in that statement that Irene could have used it as a tea-strainer.

She was a Librarian, and the deepest, most fundamental part of her life involved a love of books. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to shut the rest of the world out and have nothing to worry about except the next page of whatever she was reading.

She’d sort things out later. She’d explain things later. Right now she just had to make sure there would be a later.