“But it is,” Khalila said quietly. “A book outlives us all.”

“That’s a legacy,” Brendan said. “I’d rather have a life, if you don’t mind.”

“Philosophy later,” Wolfe said. “Run now.”

It was more of a walk, and though Jess worried their stuffed packs might attract attention, the growing chaos of the Welsh invasion worked to their advantage. Almost every person on the street carried something—a bag, a pack—and some even trundled carts. The wealthy, of course, steamed by in carriages loaded with all manner of valuables. He considered the merits of waylaying one of them and forcing the owners out at gunpoint, but that might set off a tinderbox of rioting. In the distance, looters broke windows and carried off abandoned goods. That was tragic, but would they fare better if left to burn? Probably not.

The only bad moment came when they rounded a corner four blocks from the warehouse and faced a troop of perhaps a hundred London Garda. The redcoats looked exhausted and filthy, and huddled in groups as they shared food and water. Fresh from the fight, it looked like there were plenty of wounded stretched in a row on the sidewalk, and Medica attending to them. Jess kept his gaze down as they moved around the soldiers, and hoped that nobody had thought to circulate their descriptions; together in a group, they were hard to miss.

Brendan, on the other hand, walked right up to an officer crouching against a brick wall, eating dried meat. “Brightwell,” the soldier said, and glanced at Jess. “I stand corrected. Brightwells. And I thought this day couldn’t get worse.”

“Captain Harte,” Brendan said. He reached in his pocket and slipped out a silver flask that assuredly didn’t hold water and passed it over. “How goes the war?”

“We’re trying to hold them at the bridges, but, to be honest, I don’t think we have a hope. Bloody citizens are running like scared rabbits, and the army got themselves cut off in another battle. I’m surprised to find you lot still here.” He uncapped the flask and took a long pull, sighed in satisfaction, and handed it back. “Look to your people. Get them out of here. I doubt we have more than an hour or two before this district’s overrun.”

“Anything about my father?”

“Aye. Your da was almost taken, but he got clean away. Not surprised, really; old Callum’s always been able to slither right out of a trap. I expect you’ll meet up with him again sometime.”

“All right. Luck to you.”

“You as well.”

Brendan led them a step or two on. Harte called after him. “Brendan. Library Garda’s looking for your friends. Offering rewards.”

“Are you tempted?”

Harte shrugged. “I know you’ll make it worth my while to forget.”

“That I will.” Brendan touched his forehead in a mock salute and led them on.

The warehouse was an entirely unassuming structure at the end of a blind alley, hard to see and harder to find. It was usually guarded with lurkers out on the main streets and deadly bruisers at the doors. Not today, though. Today the doors stood open, and Brendan led them straight on inside.