Chapter 11 #2
And then, in turn, observed by everyone else observing him.
Finally, when I’ve amassed all the copies of the books on the syllabi—except for Emrys’s class, of course, because God only knows what he’ll choose to assign—I cast around the reading room for space.
I never read up here in fall semester, of course. I had my own space. But
Slowly, I step down the lines of tables, until I find one unoccupied, about three-quarters of the way down on the right, beneath a window.
I unload my armful of books just as a stiff draft blows in through the cracking sealant, a swift answer to why this table was empty.
I cast a quick glance around, but it’s too late; people have seen me, or seen Kingston, anyway, and it’d look crazy to suddenly pick up and change tables just because of a little chill.
Besides: here, I’m alone.
Almost.
With my books settled, I unwind my scarf, remove my coat, and select a chair, but don’t touch it.
Instead, I slide into sideways, too fast for Kingston to try and pull it out for me.
I can’t help but catch his expression as I reach for my first book: miffed, maybe. If a man like that can look miffed.
I turn over the cover—it’s Bocaccio, De Mulieribus Claris—and flick past the frontmatter pages to the translator’s preface. Behind me, Kingston doesn’t move.
Just…stands.
I pause a moment, not actually reading, waiting to see where he’ll settle in.
But he doesn’t.
I breathe in. Breathe out. I don’t like the idea of someone hovering over me as I read—hate it, in fact. But changing that circumstance would require me to say something to Kingston, and I just…don’t want to. Don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Unfortunately, this absolutely murders my ability to concentrate. I’m itchy with it; every paragraph I want to stop and look back over my shoulder, and I’m not retaining a damn thing that I’m even reading.
Plus, people are talking.
Library talking, of course. Quiet and low, an appropriate decibel level. But I can see them as much as hear them. Heads lifting to peer at me, at him behind me. Eyes widening as study groups share meaningful looks. Footsteps slowing and mouths actually falling open as people pass.
Finally, it’s too much. I bite my tongue, huff out a breath, and turn around.
“Sit down,” I hiss at Kingston. “You look…ridiculous.”
Kingston’s jaw twitches. But he nods. He swings around to the opposite side of the table, pulls out a chair, and sits.
Finally, I think. And try to get back to my reading.
Except…
No, I realize. This is worse.
Now he’s so close I can feel him there, feel his eyes on me, feel the heat of his body that must be my imagination, because there’s no way that we’re close enough.
After twenty more minutes, I give up.
I slam the book shut, get to my feet, and gather my things.
Then I head for the staircase.
In a heartbeat, Kingston is after me—so quickly it’s unsettling—but I ignore it.
“Where are you going?” he murmurs, his tone as sharp as a library-level whisper can be.
I don’t answer. I walk to the end of the reading room, to the alcove with the printers and copiers, toward the back stairs
“Gwenna.” The urgency in Kingston’s voice ticks up. “Where are you—”
I whirl around.
“I want to see it, okay?”
For the first time all day, I meet his eyes.
Really meet them.
And it hurts.
“I want to see what happened.”
Kingston is stock still. Then—
“Gwenna, no.”
It’s too late; I’m through the door, I’m descending the stairs.
“Gwenna!”
It’s not a shout, not quite, but it sounds loud enough in the cavern of the stairwell. I don’t care; I can barely hear anything over my heartbeat now anyway.
Ground floor. A-Level.
It’s empty in the lower levels stairwell, of course. Echoing, buzzing with fluorescents, nothing but the sound of my feet pounding down the concrete steps an
B-Level.
The same door is still there, the glass window papered over. I don’t know what I was expecting—caution tape, a big DO NOT ENTER sign—but there’s none of that.
I suppose it’s been long enough.
Before Kingston can catch up to me—although, what would he do? Shove me away? Physically restrain me from going in?—I grab the doorknob and twist it.
Eyes closed, I brace myself.
Piles of ashes on shelves. Scorch marks lashing every wall. Charred, curling pages on the few survivors.
Eyes open, I see…
Nothing.
There is nothing here.
I fumble for the timer switch, which, to my surprise, flares to life, and washes everything in white, bright light.
It’s not empty. Not strictly speaking. The fixtures are still in place—the tall gray boxes of moveable shelving to the left, the structure that was once my alcove to the right, even a dead EXIT sign with darkened letters above the entrance door—but that’s all.
It’s been swept clean and sterilized. Hollowed out. Anything that made this a library, an archive, a place with something to find, is completely gone.
And that’s somehow one thousand times worse than cinders and dust.
Anger, anger that’s been percolating somewhere deep inside me, suffuses my entire body. My ears ring; my throat dries out.
“Fuck,” I whisper. Ugly word for an ugly space. “This is…”
It’s wrong, I think, wrong in a way that’s beyond criminal or moral—it’s cosmically wrong, to have nothingness like this in what should be a library. To leave nothing to mourn over. “This is…”
“It’s gone.” Kingston appears at my side.
That’s it. Two little words from him and all my fury spills out.
“I can see that,” I practically spit, whirling on him. “Of course it’s gone. It’s…it’s…obliterated, it’s…”
Why didn’t anyone tell me?
The question’s barely surfaced in my mind when a wave of humiliation sweeps it away.
You know why no one told you, Gwenna.
I look up at Kingston. I want to be hard, to be cruel and cutting, but all I feel is shapeless.
“You let someone think that I did this,” I say. “That I could have done this.”
Kingston is silent. His eyes are fixed forward, upward. Not meeting mine.
“You said nothing,” I go on, “when you could have—”
“What do you know about what I could have done?”
The steel in his voice takes me aback. But only for a moment.
“Plenty,” I say. “Enough.”
My chin is trembling, suddenly. A thought rings in my mind: This was a mistake. Only I don’t even know what this I mean.
Coming to the library?
Coming here, specifically?
Coming back at all?
Kingston’s handsome features tighten, like he’s fighting himself for control, and for the first time all evening, he looks…tired. Worn down, the ugly basement light throwing harsh shadows on his face.
“This is not about you,” he says, trying to sound patient. “Or any of us. It’s—”
“You’re right,” I murmur. “It isn’t about me. I’m— Honestly, why even come get me? Why—”
“You know why we had to come get you,” Kingston says—interrupting me for the first time all night. “It wasn’t safe for you there. Moroslav could have—”
“Yes,” I cry, desperation cracking my voice.
“Yes, I know why. It wasn’t safe. I wasn’t safe.
And if I’m not safe, your whole…mission is compromised.
” Tears are spilling from my eyes now, but I make no move to stop them.
“I understand absolutely perfectly, Kingston. I know exactly what you’re about.
And I’m sorry if I ever made the mistake of thinking you cared about anything different. ”
I clutch the books tighter to my chest and let my eyes flutter shut.
“I’m…done. I’m done here.”
When I open them again, Kingston’s face is etched with panic.
“Done,” he repeats in disbelief. “Wait, Gwenna—”
The sudden concern—God. It’d make me laugh if I weren’t already almost hysterical.
“I mean I’m going to my room, Kingston.”
I don’t wait for him to follow as I leave.