Page 115 of Librarian

“No.” The answer is hoarse. “He shouldn’t have. I should never have let him sacrifice himself?—”

“Pierce.” I tilt my head back. “He wanted to protect you above all else.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and he says nothing. We stay like that, me resting against him, until North traipses down the stairs. His black hair is sodden, and he’s wearing nothing more than a pair of baggy dark sweatpants.

“I’ll watch them,” he says, settling onto one of the beds on their left. “Take care of our girl.”

Pierce’s mouth twists half-heartedly as he allows me to pull him away from the wall. It’s easier to focus on him than on the way the Arcanaeum has been tarnished. I can hear the others ahead, but by the time we get to the bathroom, it’s empty.

That’s probably a good thing. Mathias must’ve missed this room—or perhaps he simply didn’t have enough power to fix it while he was busy draining the Library to heal himself—becauseit’s untouched. The brass fixtures and soft blue art déco theme are soothing after the harshness of the steel and glass in the hall beyond.

I unbuckle my grimoire holster and place it on the marble counter. Pierce places his beside it, before stripping in careless motions that don’t fit what I know of him. The bracelets come off. The gentle light from the wall sconces on either side of the mirror paints his scars in harsh shadows.

I follow his lead, tugging off my shirt and unlacing my corset. Without anyone to care for, the thoughts I’ve been trying to shove aside start to creep in.

What do we do about the broken dagger? Will the Arcanaeum ever be how it once was? Are the other librarians alive? Is Artemius alive? Halinor? How can I reopen the Library when there’s only me here to do all the things that the Arcanaeum and I used to share responsibility for? We have Mathias’s soul vessel—that’s huge but dangerous. Can I even protect us if I’m not able to influence the building? What if they send enforcement here and I can’t banish them? What if we lose? What if?—

Pierce’s hand grabs mine, pulling me under the warmth of the spray. The heat is a shock to my system.

Was I just standing there, naked and blankly staring into space?

He turns me so my back is to his chest, and his head falls into the space between my neck and shoulder.

“I just can’t believe he’s dead,” he murmurs.

My mind flashes back to that moment in the cottage. The way he repeated those words over and over again.

I get it. Benny was larger-than-life. It’s hard to picture a world without him in it.

“My mother?—”

“Is gone,” I promise. “She died horribly, betrayed by Mathias.”

“She wanted me.” Pierce pulls back. “She couldn’t find me or Anthea, so she killed him instead. He was captured saving me and died in my place.”

He’s likely right.

Isidora needed a reason to justify invading Fort McKinley the way she did. Executing Benny after framing him for necromancy was the simplest way to do that.

She might not even have had to falsify the evidence. He spent time with Mathias himself. There’s every chance the lich taught him some forbidden magic.

That’s not the answer that will give Pierce peace. I don’t think anything will. So I stay quiet, lathering soap across his chest with gentle swipes of my hands. His scars are rough beneath my palms, and part of me wonders if perhaps Isidora should’ve suffered a little more than she did.

No. It wouldn’t make Pierce feel better.

His hands find my hair, undoing my braid and massaging shampoo into my scalp. We alternate between the water, one rinsing, the other lathering. Two broken people caring for each other because we don’t have the capacity to do so for ourselves.

By the time we’re done, redressed, and contemplating the huge task that is walking back through the unfamiliar halls to face the others, I’m just hollow.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll sort everything. Make a plan. I overheard the incantation Mathias used to destroy your mother’s phylactery. I can use that to create a runeform.”

“Mathias dies,” Pierce vows. “That was what my grandfather wanted. Mathias dead and me…free.”

“Tomorrow.”

Right now, grief and fear have turned to exhaustion. It’s late. No one is in any state to plan anything, least of all him. We need rest.

By the time we return to the foyer, most of the others have already decided to do just that.