Page 105 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“I’m sorry, Nicholas,” said Maram. “I didn’t like tricking you, or Richard. But after this one”—she waved a hand at Esther, still not looking at her—“pushed Tretheway through the mirror instead of the other way around, as intended, well—desperate times.”

“What?” said Nicholas. “But—you—you—”

Maram spoke over his stammering. “Did your friend not tell you what she did to poor Tretheway?”

“Horrible way to go,” said Richard.

“But you sent someone to save Esther,” Nicholas said, “in the Auckland airport, you went behind Richard’s back.”

“We both know your uncle can be a bit stubborn,” Maram said. “He would never have agreed to any plan that involved letting you out of the house, running around the world on your own. Would you have, darling?”

“Probably not,” Richard said, rueful and fond.

Esther was barely listening to their words. She was staring at Maram,searching her features for the similarities Nicholas had seen. The eyebrows were alike, yes, and the shape of the face, but that wasn’t enough to hang a theory on, and certainly not enough for them to have risked their lives on a guess. Only in the sudden, adrenaline-fueled clarity of the present did she realize how clouded her thinking had been mere minutes in the past. Her skepticism had been unfeigned, but it hadn’t come from disbelief—it had come, as her skepticism so often did, from hope. She had wanted to believe what Nicholas had told her: that her mother was alive, had been alive, and was working to protect her.

But even if this person had given birth to her, which perhaps she had, Maram was not her mother. And the only person protecting Esther had been, as always, Esther.

“The book, Nicholas,” Richard said, beckoning from the other end of the gun. “Or this bullet goes straight into your new friend’s head.”

He had such a pleasant-looking face that his words seemed even more awful by comparison. Behind him, over the desk, was the portrait Nicholas had described: a stern-faced Richard in a bloodstained apron, bone saw in hand, bone frame surrounding.

“You wouldn’t kill her,” said Nicholas. “You need her alive.”

“Yes,” Richard agreed. “But the state of her mind is inconsequential as long as her body is still breathing. I was once a surgeon, you know.” With his free hand he tapped his own head. “I daresay I could inflict maximum damage without loss of life. If you could call it life, what she’d be left with. Is that what you want for her?”

Nicholas turned his own head from left to right—not shaking it, but looking around, looking for an answer. His eyes met Esther’s and she felt as desolate as he looked. She’d had the chance to run, again, as she’d run so many times before, but instead she’d come with him here, into this trap. She could tell he wanted her to speak, to say something, but she couldn’t imagine what she could say. If she opened her mouth, it would be to scream.

“There are people outside this door,” Richard said, watching Nicholascast his hopeless gaze around the room. “And in the Library itself, waiting by the passageway you took to get here. They have their orders. Please, let’s not make this messy. Give me the book.”

“First,” Nicholas said, “why don’t you give me answers.”

Richard looked at him with a pitying smile. “You’re not exactly in a position to bargain.”

“Oh, let him ask his questions,” Maram said. To Esther’s ear her accent was British, but so clipped and perfect it sounded almost practiced. “We don’t want to lose you, Nicholas. I know I speak for both Richard and myself when I say that our affection for you is entirely real.”

“That’s true.” Richard nodded. “And it always has been. This doesn’t change how we feel about you.”

“Howyoufeel aboutme?” Nicholas said.

“It’s natural you’ll need some time to adjust,” said Maram, “to sort out your new understanding of things, but—”

“You staged my kidnapping and carved my eye out of my head,” said Nicholas. “Is that what you mean bythings?”

Richard winced. “You think I enjoyed that? My god, it was one of the worst days of my life.”

Nicholas let out a hoarse, astonished laugh. “Am I even a person to you? Was my father? Or are we tools, like your scalpels and blood bags?”

“Of course you’re a person,” said Richard. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for our family, our legacy. For the Library.”

“Our family,” Nicholas said. “How old are you? You’re not my uncle. Are we even related?”

Richard’s kind eyes grew sad. “Yes,” he said. “I admit it hurts to hear you even question it. My sister was a Scribe. You and your father are both descended from her line.”

Esther didn’t mean to speak, but her mind was spinning through the generations, tallying the numbers, and squaring them with what Nicholas had told her. “The bloodline spell,” she said. “Was that you?”

Richard tensed at her voice, then visibly forced himself to relax. He steadied his gun at her head. “Nicholas told you about that, did he? You’re quite right. The spell was my design—my sister wrote the actual book.”

“With whose blood?” Nicholas said. “Whose body?”

---