Page 76 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“Sir Kiwi!” Nicholas called over his shoulder, and the little dog darted between Joanna’s legs to follow them inside. She closed the door behind them and turned around.

Collins was leaning heavily against the wall, appearing slightly sick, though lucid. With his eyes properly focused and his head held up, Joanna saw what she’d missed at first, but what she could not miss now,even in her heightened state: he was, to her mingled alarm and interest, very good-looking.

“Christ,” he said. “That was as bad as the wards at the Library.”

“Least this time we didn’t have far to go,” said Nicholas.

Even this snippet of conversation raised a thousand questions in Joanna’s head. “Wards,” Collins had said, as casually as he might have said “truck” or “sandwich.” She could feel Esther staring at her but it was too much to meet her sister’s eyes again so she addressed the men instead, leaning on the only script she’d been given for this kind of situation: Cecily’s hostessing script.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” said Collins, so loudly that he drowned out Nicholas and Esther’s replies.

“I was about to make chili,” she said. “I’ll trade you dinner for an explanation.”

“That depends,” said Esther. “Will you be adding peanut butter to this chili?”

This time Joanna did look at her. She’d made peanut butter chili once, when she was twelve years old, a culinary experiment she and Abe had quite enjoyed, and Esther and Cecily had decried as blasphemous. Esther’s eyes were bright and intent. She was saying,I still know you.

“I love chili,” said Collins.

“Come into the kitchen,” said Joanna.

Even with her back turned, she could feel Esther’s presence, could feel her taking in the house. She wondered what was going through her head after so long away. As she had with Cecily, she couldn’t help reframing her own view of the house, seeing it through her sister’s eyes: the dinge and fade of everything seemed even dingier and more faded than usual. The once-bright carpet in the hallway was threadbare and dulled, the lines of the molding were soft with dust, and the kitchen was slumped around its warped linoleum center.

“I love the retro vibe,” said Nicholas. “Look at this avocado fridge.”

Joanna glanced at him to see if she was being made fun of, but he looked genuinely enthused, dinging a fingernail off one of her hanging copper pans with an approving nod. The dog, Sir Kiwi apparently, had made it her business to sniff in every corner, her tiny nails click-clacking as she applied herself to the task.

“It looks exactly the same,” said Esther. “Like stepping into a memory.” She opened the breadbox, which held not bread but Abe’s collection of vinegary hot sauces, as it had since they were kids, some of them browned with age. She stood there staring at the red bottles, one hand at her throat. Joanna had to turn away before her own grief rose up and took her over.

The two men made themselves comfortable at the kitchen table and it had an odd, transformative effect on the room, to have strangers in a space only family had ever been. The kitchen felt smaller and livelier at once.

“Water?” Joanna said. “Beer?”

“Coffee, I think,” said Esther. “It’s been a long couple of days.”

Collins said, “But don’t give him any.” To Nicholas, “You had some earlier.”

“I think we left that rule at the Library, don’t you?”

“It’s not a Library rule, it’s a medical rule,” Collins said.

“Well, seeing as I didn’t pack any nettle tea—”

“I have nettle,” said Joanna.

“Told you,” Esther said to the others.

The three of them seemed to be following threads of conversations that did not include Joanna. She turned to her coffee maker as they chattered away, dumping out the soured remains of her morning. She was feeling so many things it was almost like feeling nothing at all. One repeated word, however, had stood out to her.

She said, “What is the Library?”

The small group at the table went silent. She started to face them andthen thought better of it, her nerves too frayed for three pairs of eyes, and busied herself with her abandoned tomato jar, applying herself again to the lid.

“That’s as good a place to start as any,” said Esther.

“The Library,” Nicholas said, “is an organization dedicated to the collection and preservation of rare and powerful manuscripts from around the world.” He sounded like a BBC announcer. “We enjoy partnerships with venerable institutions such as the British Museum, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Oxford, Cambridge, and the American Ivies, as well as providing lending and creative services to private individuals.”

---