Page 17 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

“Collins is under thirty.”

“People who aren’t paid to be near me.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it, because Maram’s face—usually so arch and controlled—wentsuddenly soft with pity. He felt himself flush and turned away. He’d let himself forget that she was one of those paid attendants.

She’d worked for Richard and the Library since before he could remember, first as the secretary in charge of organizing his late father’s notes, then as Nicholas’s head tutor, and now as chief librarian and Richard’s—well, girlfriend, Nicholas supposed, though that seemed a childish way to put it. Partner, then, in every sense of the word. Maram had always made it clear she had no interest in being his surrogate mother or even an aunt, yet she was still the closest Nicholas had ever really had to either; and now that he was more or less grown, he sometimes slipped up and considered her a friend.

But she was not. She was an employee of the Library, same as Collins, same as his doctor and his chef and the people who brought him breakfast and did his laundry. Same as everyone else in his life except for his uncle, because Richardwasthe Library. One could argue even Nicholas was technically his employee, as well as his nephew and the Library’s heir.

“I know you’ve been lonely,” Maram started. Nicholas twitched away from the hand she placed on his arm, the last of his fleeting wine sloshing in its glass.

“I’mbored,” he said, “not lonely.”

She’d succeeded in gripping his wrist, however, her red-painted nails digging into his skin even through the wool of his dinner jacket, and he realized her touch was not consolation, but warning. A man was opening the sliding door and stepping out to join them on the balcony—someone Nicholas did not know. He could see Collins emerge from the shadows by the door, his brow furrowed, clearly deciding if he should follow or not. Maram gave him a quick, subtle shake of her head and he melted back.

“Brrr,” the man said, shutting the door. “Cold as a witch’s tit out here.” He was white, over middle age, with a strong American accent and a set of perfect teeth that were no doubt meant to make him seemyounger but had the adverse effect, aging the rest of his face around their false youth.

“Mr.Welch!” Maram said, giving him the smile she reserved for people she didn’t like, all cheeks and no eyes. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Five years,” he said, shaking her hand. He held on a beat too long. “Shoulda known I’d see you here. Lord knows there’s enough people in this crowd who could afford your—” he choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and found a way around whatever he’d been going to say. “Your product.”

Maram gracefully extricated her hand. “AndIsupposed Americans considered it impolite to speak of finances at a party.”

Mr.Welch laughed in a way that he probably imagined was “hearty.” “Well, you can take the Texan out of Texas, but even after a few years here in merry ol’ England, I like to keep things honest.”

Nicholas was working to place him and must have appeared too interested, because Mr.Welch glanced his way.

“You’re Richard’s nephew, am I right? You a part of the—” another cough, this one harsh and painful-sounding. “A part of the—the—”

Even if Mr.Welch hadn’t proclaimed himself a past client, Nicholas would have known from the forced pauses in the man’s speech that he was under one of the Library’s nondisclosure spells.

“The family business?” Nicholas finished for him. “Goodness, no. I haven’t the head for it.” He extended his own hand—quite wet now from the fine rain—and gripped Mr.Welch’s, pumping it too vigorously. “I’m at Oxford, St. John’s, reading theology.”

He was, in fact, registered at the college—or at least, his name would appear on all the lists, if anyone followed up.

“Theology,” Mr.Welch repeated.

“I’ll admit I bullied Dr.Ebla into offering an independent advisory on my thesis—she got me access to the Laudian vestments, quite extraordinary needlework, have you had a chance to see them?”

“Can’t say I have,” Mr. Welch said, clearly bored by the lie, as Nicholashad hoped. His attention was back on Maram. “Oxford must be where you got that Doctor in front of your name.”

“That’s right,” Maram said.

“But you’re not English, originally,” said Mr.Welch; a leading question that would have piqued Nicholas’s own interest if he hadn’t heard her evade it a thousand times before.

“I’m not,” she said, still smiling, though the tenor of her smile changed subtly.

“Wouldn’t have guessed from how you talk,” said Mr.Welch. “You sound like the Queen herself.”

“Howeverdidyou guess, then?” Maram said pleasantly, then added, “I suppose you could liken my accent to... oh, to a good forgery, say.”

Nicholas was interested to watch Mr.Welch’s ruddy face grow pale. “Well,” he said, backing away, “I’d better skedaddle before my wife comes looking. Nice to meet you, young man. Dr.Ebla, always a pleasure.”

He let himself back into the party and Maram said, “We ought to go inside, too. You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not,” said Nicholas, then winced at how juvenile he sounded. “I am,” he amended. “But I’d rather be out here shivering than in there making nice with—oh, for heaven’s sake.”

He’d caught sight of Richard passing Mr.Welch inside, both men nodded at one another as Richard made his way toward the balcony, and a second later, his uncle was sliding the door open. So much for coming out here to be alone.

“What did Mr.Welch want?” Richard said immediately, bending over Nicholas in concern. “Did he want to talk to you?”

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