Emry’s jaw dropped as she pushed open the double doors of the library. Not from the chessboard marble floor, although that was impressive, nor the long wooden tables and velvet-upholstered chairs. Not even from the crests of the noble houses that bordered the ceiling, painted in what had to be real gold. She’d never seen so many books. They stretched two stories high, the second level bordered by a slim balcony with an iron railing and narrow spiral stair. It was a library in the same sense that a cathedral was a church.

And while it was undeniably wonderful, it was also a little bit of a disaster. She had no idea how she was going to track down Master Ambrosius’s books before supper. And then she spotted the pale, brown-haired librarian slouched behind a stack of books, a quill and inkpot at his elbow.

He was tall and lean, with wavy chestnut hair, dark, intelligent eyes, and high cheekbones. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, and he was dressed plainly, in a blue tunic with the sleeves rolled, brown hose, and worn leather boots. He was, overall, an outstandingly handsome young man.

Not that she noticed. Much.

He tapped his quill against the table, thinking. And then, with a satisfied smirk, bent his head over a piece of parchment and began to write.

Emry waited for him to look up, but he kept scribbling. “Excuse me,” she finally broke in.

“Did you need something?” he asked, eyes still on his parchment. “Or do you just enjoy disturbing those who are otherwise occupied?”

Emry bristled. He had no call to be so rude. She wished she could march right out of the library, giving the door a satisfying slam behind her, but she knew better than to fail her first errand as Master Ambrosius’s apprentice.

“I’m looking for some books,” she persevered.

“Whatever for?” he mused, dipping his quill into his inkpot.

“Baking into a pie,” Emry snapped, losing her patience.

The young man finally glanced up, regarding her coolly. “I believe you’re supposed to eat your own words, not someone else’s.”

He made as though to go back to his writing, but Emry leaned forward, sliding the slip of paper across the table.

“I need these,” she said. “Tonight.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it?”

“You’re the librarian,” Emry said, exasperated. “Either help me or don’t. But I’ll be gone faster if you do.”

“An excellent point.” He took the slip of paper and set down his quill. “In that case, I suppose I had better assist you.”

She’d thought him handsome slouched over his books, but standing up, he was so much more than that. There was an unstudied elegance to the way he moved, and she realized belatedly that she was staring. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed.