Chapter 19
Maeve didn’t sleep any more that night. She locked herself in her lavatory and reworked her traveling scribing, then changed without waking Nan. This time, she stole a handful of letters from the Scriptorium, stuffing them in her saddlebag. She made it through the gates and into Blackcaster Station by midmorning, hurrying around couriers to the black stone wall.
The room was busier than the last time, but there was still an empty section in the farthest corner. Maeve walked to it, then made a show of waving a stolen letter. The sounds of sorting drowned out her voice as she whispered her name, calling forth the black door.
Feeling brave, she kept her eyes open. The moment her head passed the doorframe, a city appeared around her instantly. Her breath caught at the sight.
The last time, she could only see Gloam in Barrow from a distance.
As the strange, pristine buildings rose around her, Maeve marveled at their lack of ink-stained signs and cluttered windowsills. In fact, the leaded glass storefronts shone with a mirrorlike vibrancy. She turned in a slow circle.
Aggie had brought her here once before, but she didn’t remember everything being so…perpendicular. All the buildings were crafted from sturdy stones that looked hewn by machines, not chipped away by hand, and the cobblestones were all perfectly square and symmetrical.
Maeve stared in awe. Until a pair of women in high-necked winter coats walked by, giving her strange looks.
She tore her eyes from the sights and found a signpost. The street names were the same in each world. She stood a few blocks south of Old Town, on a street she’d wandered down a hundred times in Leyland. It felt unsettling wandering down it now, but she made her way to the fanciful storefront on the corner, with a sign that read: Plume The Scriptomancer’s Companion said certain inks paired better with certain scribing types. This color could have helped those letters bleed more, for all she knew.
“It’s one of our more expensive bottles,” the clerk said. “But with proper care it can last twenty years.”
“What’s the price?” Maeve asked.
“Thirty hallions and twenty-two shills.”
Maeve nearly dropped it. “That can’t be the real price.”
The clerk plucked it from her fingers. “If you’re looking for something less rare, we have this lovely burgundy for three hallions.” She lifted a dark purple bottle.
Maeve glanced at the ledger book. “Actually, I must confess that I’m here because I was using a colleague’s ink, and I spilled the entire bottle. Terribly clumsy of me, I know. I think it was Oxblood, but I’m not certain because the label was peeled off. Would it be possible to have a look at the purchase ledger to see if my friend bought a bottle?”
“I’m afraid customer information is confidential,” the clerk said, then glanced at something behind Maeve.
“I never thought I would see an apprentice here, of all places,” a bright voice said.
Maeve’s stomach dropped. She spun around to stare into Shea Widden’s wide blue eyes.
There was nowhere Maeve could run, no excuse she could think of to explain how she was standing in Barrow.
Shea grinned. Her keen eyes darted to Maeve’s wrist. “Adept at the traveling scribing?”
Maeve’s thoughts stumbled, but there was no way to deny it now. “Please. You can’t tell anyone.”
If Tristan found out, he would wonder which of her direct relatives was a scriptomancer, then he would wonder about other things.
“Don’t fret.” Shea took Maeve’s hand and patted it. “I understand perfectly.”
“You do?”
“Of course. There was someone in my year who hid it as well. They wanted to visit their grandmother in Barrow, but they couldn’t do the tracking scribing to take deliveries yet.”
“That’s me exactly,” Maeve said, then quickly thought through a story of a heartsick uncle in case Shea asked after her exact reason for visiting this world. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Have you told Tristan?” Shea asked, and Maeve shook her head. Shea clucked her tongue. “Tristan should really know. Even though I don’t particularly care for your mentor, he’ll be able to walk you through all the rules, like what to say if you wind up in a cranky old man’s bedroom.” She quirked her mouth. “It’s not pleasant, but every situation can be handled with grace if you know how to act. Promise me you’ll tell Tristan soon.”
“I promise,” Maeve lied.
“Thank you—truly. It saves me from having to speak with him myself.”
Maeve bit her tongue to keep from defending him. “I should really be going.”
“Wait a moment,” Shea said, tapping her bottom lip. “I came here to get supplies for my booth at the Scriptomantic Exhibition, but I suppose I could help you out. You did come all this way.” She turned to the clerk. “How about I take a look at the purchase ledger for my colleague here?” She leaned toward Maeve. “It’s what you wanted to see, isn’t it?”
Maeve nodded slowly, while the clerk’s cheeks reddened. “But, Miss Widden, I—”
“Do I need to remind you that my family owns this entire store?”
Owned? Maeve would never have come here if she knew that.
The clerk nodded and tripped over her feet, but returned with the thick ledger book, which she placed on the counter in front of them. Shea opened it before Maeve had the chance. “Whose name am I looking for?”
Blast it all.
“Mr.Braithwaite,” Maeve rattled off the first name that came to mind. “But could you list off everyone who’s purchased a bottle of Oxblood in the last month? Mr.Braithwaite might have been gifted the bottle from a family member.”
Shea read the names. Only three bottles were sold. One bottle to a gentleman whose name Shea recognized, who owned a bank just south of Gloam in Barrow, one bottle to Tristan, and one bottle to the initials O.P.A.A.
“O.P.A.A.?” Maeve asked.
“My family has a supplies contract with the Post, and different departments use different initials,” Shea said. “O.P.A.A. stands for the Otherwhere Post’s Archivist Account.”
“Like the archivists who run the libraries?”
“Of course. There’s aren’t any others. Why? Is your Mr.Braithwaite an archivist? I don’t recognize the name.”
“No.”
The only archivist she knew of was Sibilla, the head archivist of the Second Library. The woman in Tallowmeade’s picture.
Maeve went over her last conversation with Sibilla, but nothing the woman had said or done seemed out of the ordinary. She was only one archivist, anyhow, and the Post had dozens. Besides, it would have been simple for Postmaster Byrne to sign O.P.A.A. to keep anyone from discovering that he purchased it. Perhaps the Postmaster chose such a rare ink because he wanted her to see O.P.A.A. and think it was an archivist writing the threatening letters and not him.
She thought of her father’s roommate. He might be able to tell her if the Postmaster was behind everything once and for all. She had to speak with him, which meant she had to first track down his name in the Second Library.
She needed a courier key.
Maeve didn’t risk returning to Leyland through her courier door until the moon was high and the station was near empty. The temperature in Leyland was chillier than Barrow. The first flurry of winter’s snow dusted her cloak as she made her way toward the Post’s grounds. A bird shrieked from somewhere in the snow. The sound startled Maeve into a jog. She ran through the courtyard, then skidded on a new patch of ice, falling hard on her side. Her tooth went through her lip, and coppery blood slipped across her tongue.
She pushed herself up, hobbling the rest of the way to Hawthorne House. This time, she walked straight past her room and over to Tristan’s, beating her fist against his door.
A lock turned, and the door cracked. He poked his head through the opening, buttoning the last button of his shirt.
His feet were bare, his hair a perfect mess. His face lit up at the sight of her. He smiled brightly, and for a moment, Maeve forgot why she was standing there. Then his smile fell when he noticed her split lip. “What happened to you?”
“The ground wanted to have its way with me, but I wasn’t in the mood.” She dragged in a breath. “I already know what you’re going to say, but I need to get inside the Second Library. Can I please borrow your courier key? Just for an hour.”
“If you already know what I’m going to say, then you know my answer is a resounding no.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“You’ll be stopped immediately. Probably by an irritable archivist with a fondness for screaming at the top of their lungs for help.”
“I’ll talk my way out of it before they make a peep.”
“Doubtful.” He took Maeve’s hand, running his bare thumb across her palm. It was scraped up from her fall. “Did you get in a boxing match with a tree as well?”
She jerked her hand away.
“Why don’t you let me look up whatever it is you’re so keen to find?” Tristan offered.
It was tempting, but she had already asked him to look up her father’s roommate for Nan yesterday. If she suddenly confessed it was for her, Tristan would spit back a thousand questions that she didn’t care to answer.
“Thanks, but I need to go on my own,” she said.
“Then you’ll have to finish a scribing and show my father. He gives out the courier keys.”
Of course it was the Postmaster. Showing him her true name on her wrist was out of the question, and she didn’t have weeks to sit around until she figured out the other four scribing types.
She turned and started walking away.
“What if we made a bargain?” Tristan called out.
Maeve swung around. “A bargain?”
He leaned against the doorframe. “Tell me a secret, and I’ll help you out.”
He would trade his courier key for one of her secrets?
Then she understood exactly what he wanted. “I’m not giving you my name.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t?”
“I only want a secret that nobody else knows, and as much as I’d love to know the material of your knickers, that won’t do either.” He took a step into the hall. “I want something big. Something that will help me understand you better. Something that you’re afraid to tell me.”
But she was afraid to tell him everything!
“Whatever you share will stay between us,” he added.
She believed him, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Maeve racked her brain for something good enough, then came up with a single secret that might appease him, that stood out from her vast sea of lies. It was certainly a big secret—hopefully big enough to fit his criteria without giving too much of herself away. It wouldn’t endanger her to tell it, and yet the thought of giving Tristan a piece of her that she had kept buried inside for so long made her queasy.
She stepped toward him, checking the hall. They were alone, and she was terrified.
“All right,” she said, measuring her breaths. She took another step, until she stood directly before him. “I’m from Inverly.”
“What?”
“I—I was there when the Aldervine came.”
His eyes narrowed, while his jaw slackened. Did he not believe her?
“I barely made it out,” she said, hoping more details would help convince him. “I saw it wrap around a woman and prick her. I watched her irises turn pure white. A stranger grabbed hold of me and helped me escape into Leyland. The rest of my family was not so lucky.”
Her heart pounded, but she held her breath, waiting for Tristan to respond.
His forehead creased into a frown. He stared at her but didn’t speak.
It made her want to run away more than anything, but she pulled her spine straight. “Was that not a good enough secret?”
“I…” he started. He shook his head. “I mean—yes. It was. Of course it was.”
“So where’s your courier key?”
“Not anywhere nearby.” He pressed his index finger to the space between his eyebrows, blinking, as if trying to compose himself. It startled her.
“Meet me in an hour on the north side of the Hall of Routes,” he said without looking up. Then he stepped inside his room and shut the door in her face.