In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it had been common for libriomancers to double as writers, trying to create weapons and artifacts they could use. That experience had taught the Porters two important lessons. First, writing was harder than it looked. Second, and more importantly, the dangers of possession increased exponentially with books written by libriomancers. Something about our own magic infused the text, weakening the barriers between story and reality, and endangering any reader with the slightest bit of magical ability.

I jumped to my feet and headed for the science fiction and fantasy section of the library, moving with newfound determination.

“You think they’ll have a copy?” Lena asked doubtfully.

“Nope.” I skimmed the shelves until I got to the M’s. I pulled out a worn paperback of Robin McKinley’s Beauty.

“Are you going to explain, or are you going to grandstand?”

“A little of both.” I stepped deeper into the shelves, making sure nobody was watching. “This is McKinley’s retelling of Beauty and the Beast. In her version, the beast’s library contains a copy of every book ever written, past and future.”

McKinley wasn’t the only author to have imagined such a library, but the Porters had rules restricting the use of these titles. Some had been charred too badly to risk using them again, while others were supposed to be preserved for emergencies. Normally, I would have needed to write a three-page requisition to use this one, but there were advantages to being a freelancer. The Porters would come after me if I proved a danger, but I should be able to get away with minor tricks.

I skimmed to the library scene and reached into the beast’s castle, concentrating on the title I wanted.

“How do you create a book you’ve never read?” asked Lena.

“Remind me later, and I’ll give you a copy of Price’s treatises on metamagical manifestation. In brief, we can’t create ‘future’ titles. The book has to exist in our world.” Two libriomancers had been disciplined for trying to get an early copy of the last Harry Potter book. “It’s all about resonance. I know the book I want, and magical resonance allows me to create a clone of the work from existing copies. At least, that’s Price’s theory.”

I held my breath and grabbed what felt like a slim trade paperback. I turned it sideways, tugged it free, and showed it to Lena with a flourish. “Be honest. Don’t I deserve a little grandstanding?”

“Read first. Grandstand later.”

I shoved V-Day into my jacket, reshelved Beauty in the proper spot, and followed her toward the door. There were now three people hunched over the corpse of the computer I had fried, like necromancers trying to resurrect a corpse.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Ro waved my apology away. “Not your fault. It looks like the power supply shorted out, fried the whole thing.”