We’ve examined what Rachel suggested might be useful in the first two tiers of the library, and now we’re just waiting for access to some of the oldest manuscripts that are housed in a separate section on another floor. I imagine it will be dark and quiet as a tomb there, with only thin candles for light. And the ink on the scrolls has faded to a nearly unreadable weight.

But really, I don’t know. Not yet. Maeve is working on getting us access. She has been a great help and seems almost as eager to find my family as I am.

Today, Sebastian and I wait at our usual reading table on the second floor, while Maeve is at her own table on the other side of this floor. She keeps a log of notes and a stack of books and papers she’s using to try to piece together what happened to her missing family. Every second she isn’t helping us, she spends there.

“Are you ready?” Rachel’s voice startles me out of my thoughts.

“Oh yes,” I say, hopping off my chair. “I’ll go fetch Maeve.”

Before Sebastian or Rachel can say a word, I’m off, skipping through the long rows of shelves toward where Maeve sits. I slow as I approach her desk. It isn’t nice to startle people, and I’m trying to be more mindful of bursting headlong from the stacks.

Maeve has her back to me as I approach, but she glances behind and smiles. She tucks the thin, little book she was examining back into the stack on her table.

“Simone! Is Rachel already back?”

“She is. I’ve come to fetch you.”

“Then we should hurry.” Maeve holds out her hand. I gladly take it and return the grin. When we regroup, Rachel leads us up to the room housing the old scrolls and maps, and whistles as she thumbs through the keys on the key ring at her waist. “I’ve only been in here once before. We don’t usually grant new visitors access. The head librarian has clearly taken a shine to you.” She finds the key she needs—an old iron one, the handle twisted into intricate knotwork—and unlocks the heavy wooden door. She holds it open, and Maeve leads us inside.

In the center of the room is a heavy oak table that looks as though it was hewn from the cross section of an ancient, enormous tree. Maeve told us about trees like that in Abbacho, but I don’t recall if I’ve ever seen them. If I did, Sebastian must have taken the memory away from me. I run my hands over the table and shiver.

The rest of the circular room is shelf after shelf packed with scrolls of all shapes and sizes, with pockets of manuscripts stacked flat and a few bound books here and there with crackling leather covers. Something scents the air—a smell particular to books, as I’ve discovered over the past few days—and makes my nose itch pleasantly. My mouth hangs open as I take it all in, while Sebastian sputters beside me.