Page 26 of Prince of Masks
“Very littleis something.” I shrug a shoulder, and the black sleeve of my tight-fitted sweater shifts with the gesture. “I’ll take whatever you have.”
His grunt-hum hybrid jerks his chest. “Not everything is available to be loaned out.”
Still, he turns to the computer, and the light of the monitor dances over his glasses. His trimmed nails clack the keyboard.
The noise snares my attention whole.
I wait, shifting from leg to leg, my fingers picking at my palm.
“There are ancestry studies,” he says with a curt breath, one that’s not great news, “and some blood studies. According to the directory, these are the only mentions of deadbloods. Six, in total.”
I nod, firm. “I’ll take them.”
He looks at me a moment before his tight smile cuts into his cheeks. Forced. He clacks the keyboard again, flicking his stare back to the monitor.
“There.” He hits the enter button. “I have sent the order to your account.”
I blink. “My account?”
“The Craven account.”
I frown between him and the monitor, once, twice, then, “Can’t I just take them now?”
A scoff jolts his shoulders.
“Miss Craven.” He turns to thread his fingers together on the edge of the table. “You are requesting to borrow from the sacred archives. These must be insured under your family account, which will need the approval of the primary account holder—”
“You…” I falter, and my voice is twisted in a hushed whisper, strained like a choked breath. “You sent that to my father?”
“Well, yes.”
The inhale I draw in expands my chest.
The whole point of sneaking around was to not have my parents find out what I’m up to.
“Delete it,” I say and flurry my hand at the computer. “Delete it, now, I don’t need the books, I just… You need to delete it.”
His thin mouth parts on hesitation. “I… I cannot, I’m afraid.” His hands separate, and he gives a gesture like he’s holding a football. “The system has sent the request. It is with the holder of the account now—in email.”
I run my tongue around the curve of my teeth. My mouth swells with the gesture, and my eyes are wide with faint panic rising up as an echo, and so I must look mad.
The librarian thinks so, at least.
The distaste of his pinched mouth and wrinkled nose is fleeting, but I caught it, and I itch to tear his face off.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Useless!” I snap, then whirl around.
I march out of the crypts, out of the library—and a sickly sensation unravels down my chest, a ribbon unwinding, icicles forming.
I am so fucked.
*
There is no chance in hell I am going home so soon. I’ll put that off for as long as I can.
So, after I storm out of the library, I take the tube to Bond Street. I use the time, swaying with the rocking jilt of the train, to think up a strategy.
