Page 32 of Rejected Hollow

I stopped.

“How do you know my name?”

“Everyone knows your name.”

There were apparently ways of saying a person’s name that made it sound less like identification and more like evidence.

He set the brush down and finally looked at me.

His eyes were a very clear amber. They moved over me once, from head to toe, without revealing what he thought.

“Ronan Ashgrave,” he said. “I keep the Archive. How may I help you?”

He did not sound particularly interested in helping me. He sounded like a man fulfilling an obligation.

“I want to read about Hollows,” I said. “Whatever you have. Histories, case studies, anything about what happens to them or why the glass shows nothing.”

“Restricted.”

“All of it?”

“All of it. Assessments, histories, and records concerning Hollows are restricted to faculty and the Council.” He picked up his brush again. “I’m sorry.”

He did not sound sorry either.

Heat crept into my face, but this time the embarrassment brought something else with it. Irritation, maybe. Stubbornness.

“Why?” I asked. “Why would anyone need to restrict that?”

For a moment, he did not answer.

His free hand rose almost absently to the high collar of his coat, and his fingers pressed against it for a second before he lowered them again.

“The reading room closes at nine,” he said.

I stayed.

Mostly because I did not appreciate being dismissed, I went to the long table closest to his desk and sat down. I pulled a book from the nearest shelf so I would have something to look at while I occupied the chair on principle.

The title on the spine read Liber de Cordibus Feris.

“Book of…” I murmured. “Iron cords. Book of Iron Cords.”

“Cordibus means hearts,” Ronan said from his desk without looking up. “Not cords. And feris means wild, not iron. You’re thinking of ferrum.” He paused. “The Book of Wild Hearts. It’s a bestiary. Thirteenth century. Mostly nonsense.”

I looked at him, but he had already bent over the gold leaf again.

Then I looked back at the shelf and noticed the empty space where the book had been.

“Then why is it shelved in Heraldry?” His brush stopped. “Everything else on this shelf has a coat of arms on the spine,” I continued. “That one has a unicorn with a spear through it. If this is a bestiary, it belongs over there with the other bestiaries.” I pointed across the room. “I’m not an expert, but I spent a summer filing at my doctor’s office. If somebody had put something in the wrong section like that, they would have made us redo the whole wall.”

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then one corner of his mouth moved slightly.

He did not quite smile, but he came close.

“Noted,” he said.