Page 24 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

She knew what it was immediately and leaped up so quickly she jostled the bowl. Broth slopped over the edge and pooled on the white particleboard. She got down on her hands and knees to look under her bed, then began pawing through the discarded heap of clothes by her bureau, panic churning her stomach. Esther was messy but she was neither irresponsible nor forgetful, and definitely not with something as precious as Alejandra Gil’s novel. The monetary value was only a fraction of what it meant to her.

But no matter where or how frantically she searched, the Gil, with its distinctively vivid green paperback cover, didn’t appear. The blood was rushing to her face, and despite the chill of her room she was sweating, her hair escaping its ponytail and flying around her face as she searched. She tore apart her already torn-apart room. The tears she’d suppressed were now welling in her eyes. It was here, it was here, it had to be here.

It was not.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she stopped. She sat back on her haunches and gave in to a few seconds of pure unbridled despair, her face in her hands. Then she wiped her cheeks and took stock of things. The novel was gone. No—not gone. Taken. Someone had come in here and taken it.

There was only one person it could’ve been. Only one person who knew the novel was here, and knew its value, and only one person Esther was certain had been here while she was gone.

Pearl.

7

Nicholas woke gasping for air and kicking his legs against the tangled reeds of a nightmare. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat, his senses underwater, heart hurtling like a bullet train as he lay still, blinking to clear his sleep-blurred vision enough to concentrate on the bedroom around him. The light coming through a gap in the linen curtains was slurring and gray and the vines on his wallpaper wavered in and out of focus, but Sir Kiwi’s yapping was loud and clear and grounding. He reached out and got a handful of her fur, felt her little tongue on his palm, and the vacuum of panic began to release him.

“All right,” Nicholas said, cupping his dog’s tiny, stubborn, barking head. “All right, all right, I’m awake.”

Sir Kiwi calmed as he did, putting her paws on his shoulder and staring down into his face with her head cocked. He rolled to one side and groped on his bedside table for the novel he always kept there, a gilded 1978 edition ofThe Three Musketeers,opened it at random, and let his gaze fall to the middle of the page.

“In order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be free, a prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a floor—all undertakings which a patient and strong man may accomplish, but before which the feverish irritations of a woman must give way.”

He read a few paragraphs, steadying his breath to the rhythm of Milady’s familiar rage, until the last remnants of his nightmare had faded.

He’d often had bad dreams as a child, and one of his earliest memories was of his governess’s dour, impatient face looming over him in the dark, her froggy voice repeating, “Wake up, wake up, it isn’t real.” For years, the only nights he slept through were the ones when Richard read tohim. They’d gone through all sorts of novels together, but Nicholas had lovedThe Three Musketeersby Alexandre Dumas the most.He’d been eight when Richard first read it to him and he’d probably read it a dozen times since. The book seemed to grow with him, new jokes and innuendos revealing themselves with each passing year, the world richer, the friendships deeper. How badly he’d wanted to live in that world! He’d even convinced his uncle to hire him a fencing tutor for a time, but the endless drills and lunges felt nothing like the duels of the novel. What was the point of fighting if there was nothing, no one, to fightfor?

Recently the nightmares had become more frequent, and he’d taken to keeping the Dumas by his bed to read a few paragraphs whenever he woke up; a medicine to settle his nerves.

He dropped the novel back on the table and looked at the little brass clock beside it. Nine a.m., later than he usually slept. When he yawned, Sir Kiwi darted forward to try and lick the inside of his mouth, a truly revolting habit of hers that he barely fended off at the last second.

“Yes,” he said, “I know what you want, give me a minute and then we’ll go.”

He pushed the dog aside and sat up to apply himself to the grossly satisfying task of unsticking the gunky lashes around his prosthetic. The eyelashes on his left side were sparser than on the right because of this morning routine, but he enjoyed the degunking process too much to outsource it to the warm face cloth that might’ve saved his lashline.

Soon enough he threw back the layers of blankets and stood, waiting through a wave of dizziness and shivering in his silk pajamas. Dizziness and constant cold: delightful side effects of regular blood loss. Quickly he dressed, then laced up a pair of solid-soled Brioni boots. His feet, at least, felt stable.

Because of the Library’s specialized wards, this was the one place in the world where Nicholas was not required to have a bodyguard stationed outside while he slept, so he was surprised to see Collins standing to attention in the hallway. His big square body had been removed from itsparty suit and was now dressed in his standard not-a-uniform uniform of multipocketed black joggers, white T-shirt, ugly American high-top trainers, and the black felt-and-leather Gucci bomber jacket Nicholas had bought him last month because he couldn’t bear to look at his rotating collection of cheap track jackets anymore.

“What’re you doing here?” Nicholas said.

“Body guarding,” Collins drawled, leaning hard on his Boston accent. He bent to extend a hand to Sir Kiwi. “What’s up, bad dog? High five.” Sir Kiwi patted her paw against his palm, and he dug into his pocket for a treat.

“But we’re at home.”

Collins straightened up as Sir Kiwi crunched the little biscuit. “Do you not remember what happened last night?” He clicked a penlight on his key ring and aimed it at Nicholas’s right eye. “Let me see that pupil.”

“No, I remember,” Nicholas said, ducking away. “I just—does Richard think it’s unsafe here?” He tried not to let his voice betray his nerves.

“Better safe than sorry,” Collins said, and put a hand to his radio earpiece. “You want breakfast?”

“Coffee,” said Nicholas.

“I’ll get in trouble if I give you caffeine.”

“You’re the hero of the hour, you won’t get in trouble. Besides, last I checked my diet wasn’t under your jurisdiction.”

Collins pointed at him. “Body.” He pointed at himself. “Guard.” But then he squinted and said, “All right, you look like you could use it.”

Collins radioed through to the kitchen and ordered two coffees, then started down the hallway without another word.

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