Page 19 of Librarian

That gives us time to plan and sleep, not that I manage much of the latter with worry for Kyrith gnawing at my gut. Throwing myself into work is the only thing that keeps me sane.

The others barely tolerate me. The tension between the five of us is suffocating. I’m almost grateful to be inside my grandfather’s manor simply because it’s the first time since I woke up that no one’s trying to murder me with their eyes.

Worse, Lambert still won’t even look at me.

Now it’s Monday.

Isidora put out a statement that the Library has been under maintenance for the weekend but will be open as normal today. I have to persuade the old man to agree to the plan before then, but he hasn’t looked up from his damned paper since I got here. He has his chair pulled right up to the fire, and he’s wrapped in a half-dozen layers under his tweed jacket, even though his gloomy house is sweltering like always. What little white hairremains on his balding head catches the glow from the wisplight that hovers on his shoulder so he can read better.

“Grandfather.” I shove back my sleeves and resist the urge to take off my coat. Soon I’ll be back in Orkney freezing my balls off. “This is important.”

“Bleeding horse lost again,” he grumbles under his breath, ignoring me. “Why do I even bother?”

“Parriarch,” I grind out. “Rector Talcott is dead. The Arcanaeum has been taken over by the Carltons and the Acklands.”

That gets his attention, enough that he looks at me, anyway. I waste no time ripping the hem of my shirt up. “And the Librarian nullified my ensorcellment.”

His eyes stare through over-large glasses, squinting like he can make the grey lines of a spent ensorcellment appear if he looks hard enough. He won’t find it. Even the pink mark that was there initially has faded.

His grimoire—a book so large it no longer has a spine to hold it together—floats open, pages expanding.

“Virecot.”

“Really? A truth spell?” I suck the insides of my cheeks as my hands fist. A fecking truth spell. I’m his stars-damned grandson and he doesn’t trust me.

“Tell me everything again.” Artemius has never apologised in his miserable life, and even now his tone is uncompromising.

“Abe Talcott is dead. Mathias Ackland and Isidora Carlton have invaded the Arcanaeum, and the Librarian created the runeforms necessary to lift my curse. I’m cured. Now I need you to help me stop a lich from?—”

He heaves himself out of his chair, releasing the spell and picking the paper back up. “Nonsense. There are no liches. If the ensorcellment can be lifted?—”

“Shut up and listen to me.”

He freezes, a flash of anger crossing his features. The pages of his grimoire, which never closed, flicker in warning. “You don’t speak to me like that, boy.”

“I haven’t been a boy for years,” I retort, releasing my shirt. “And if you can’t spare three minutes to listen to the very real threats facing our family, you don’t deserve to be the parriarch.”

I have never, in my life, dared to be as blunt with him as I am now. Part of me is holding my breath, waiting for the belting that would’ve been instant if I were ten years younger. Fortunately, it never comes.

I must’ve caught him off guard.

Time to press my advantage while I have it.

“The other heirs and I are working to fix this mess. Your job—your one fecking job—is to tell anyone who bothers to ask that I’m bed-bound from a mysterious magical malady after crawling home in the middle of the night.” I slam a handful of Kyrith’s letters onto the table before him. “Start distributing these to every single one of Donal’s descendants. I’ll work on the degenerated second runeforms as soon as we save the Library.”

“You think you can just order me?—”

“If you don’t do this, you’re condemning the whole family,” I say. “You’ve lectured me about duty since before I could walk. Now it’s time for you to do yours.”

My grandfather pins me with the shrewd gaze that once meant I was due a thrashing, and my hand drops to my grimoire without thought, drawing a huffed laugh from him.

“You lost your ensorcellment and found your backbone at the same time, I see.”

“I lost a lot more than that.” Too much.

“Good. You need to be a soulless bastard to survive as parriarch.” He folds his paper in half, then again, dropping it on the side table without fanfare. “You want this shite done? Fine.”

Stars in the fecking sky, why is he always so bleeding difficult?