“The devil is she doing?” Brightwell asked, and started to move for a better angle. Wolfe’s hand held him back.

“She’s doing her work,” he said. “Not yours. Leave her alone.”

Dario attached tags and sent five before he staggered with the familiar weakness Jess remembered so well. Khalila managed four before she had to stop. It was enough. There were only a few boxes left now, and other Scholars were sending the last.

Dario palmed two extra discs and slipped them into a pocket, a move so practiced and sleek that Jess only noticed it because of his angle. Then he grabbed Khalila’s arm and pulled her toward the door.

Naomi got in the way. The librarian was a tall, strong woman, beautiful, and she didn’t seem cowed by the fire now undulating across the ceiling above them. The other Scholars were using leftover Translation tags to send themselves home to the Archives. It was a last-resort escape, and some looked desperately reluctant, but, one by one, they dissolved in swirls and screams and blood.

No tags left.

Naomi didn’t move. She stared at Khalila and Dario, and they stared back.

“Kill her,” Brightwell said to one of his men, and, quick as lightning, Santi had his forearm across the man’s throat and the muzzle of his weapon pressed to the side of his head.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.” The man muttered an agreement, and Santi let him go, then turned the gun on Brightwell when Jess’s father tried to approach. “You brought us here to get through the Translation Chamber. That can still happen, but we need to go. Now.”

Wolfe stepped into the doorway, and said, “Naomi.” Ebele turned and saw him, and for a moment Jess saw her smile in relief . . . and then the smile faded when she realized he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just Brightwell’s people now; the Burners had crowded in behind them, stinking of chemicals and smoke. The hard-eyed woman who led them had a triumphant grin on her face.

“Naomi, please come with us,” Khalila said. “You can’t stay here, and all the tags are gone. Please.” She held out her hand to Naomi, who looked at her with real distaste and took a step away.

“In all my days,” she said, “I never thought I would see Scholars standing with Burners. Ever. I would rather burn myself here than go with you.”

Dario sighed and reached in his pocket. He handed her a Translation tag. “Don’t do that,” he said, and coughed; the smoke was flooding in now, black and greasy. “Save yourself, Naomi.”

“Come with me!”

“We can’t,” Khalila said. “Go.” She looked around at the reading room, the empty tables, the Blanks still sitting on shelves and burning like torches. “I’m sorry.”

This time when Dario grabbed her and moved her on, she went willingly. Naomi met Wolfe’s eyes as she pressed the Translation tag, and said, “May God forgive you, Scholar.” Then she was gone, in a spray of blood and bone.