“They do not possess sentience,” she affirms, turning a corner and leaving the matronic behind even as all of us are surreptitiously glancing back at it. “Manmade sentience has only ever been accomplished by the Wave.”

“Then why do they not like being looked at?” Lucien asks. “Surely things without sentience cannot have preferences.”

“Does a bird not have a preference for gentle wind and sunny days?” the woman asks. “We have created life in the matronics, and so they prefer it a certain way.”

Malachite and I share a thoroughly worried look. Fione, meanwhile, appears lost in her imagination, thrilled at the polymathematics of it all, and Lucien looks likewise intrigued. But the beneather and I know better—if the Black Archives are making these matronics, then that means they’re the only ones who know how to control them. It’s worrisome. What are they making them for? I doubt they’ll ever tell us that. I glance back now and then, and it appears the matronics are here to lift the polymaths up to the higher shelves. There’s an indent in their backs well-suited for stepping on, and mortal-sized metal handles on their shoulders. The carved shelves turn into perfectly spaced footholds for the matronics to clamber effortlessly up, the polymaths pointing towards the book they require. That’s why the polymaths don’t need ladders. They’ve invented walking ladders. Walking ladders that have no eyes, but can still see. Walking ladders that aren’t flesh, but still have preferences.

And Fione just won’t stop staring.

“Fione,” I murmur to her. “Maybe don’t.”

The archduchess barely spares a glance at me, but I reach for her elbow carefully, trying to gently remind her of what we’re here to do. Thankfully, we don’t have much more time to dwell on the disturbing matronics, as the woman leads us away from the main library ward and into a thin-cut hall cleaving into the volcanic rock with many doors on either side. Once we’re out of sight of the matronics and their bulk, Fione seems to regain herself, the sparkle in her eyes hardening to determination once more as she walks.

After what feels like an unending trek down a repeating infinity, the woman finally stops in front of a specific door and motions for us to go inside. We squeeze in tentatively, the room barely big enough to accommodate a small polished table with four chairs.

“Please wait here.” The woman makes a bow. “I will return with the polymath of relevancy in a moment.”

“The polymath?” Lucien’s brow wrinkles. “We came here for books, for matrices. We need a codex to translate—”