“Look at this shoe. Filthy, no? What material is it made from? What about the mud embedded in its sole? Where did it come from? Look at the creases in the leather. This shoe tells a story even to you who do not understand the language of objects, but to me, this shoe tells a tale about a laborer, not particularly old but not young, either. His name was Raoul, and he lived in a vast country not his own. He had a young daughter for whose sake he worked for little pay at a rich man’s company. Raoul owned only one pair of shoes, and he kept them clean.” The young librarian’s face slips into sorrow as his hand traces the creases of the old shoe. “His daughter was killed by bullies who wouldn’t accept her differences, and because he was an immigrant, justice for him, for his child, wasn’t a priority to those in power. Excuses were made. Without his daughter, the man lost his reason to live. He slipped into despair, and one morning, just after dawn, he walked out onto a busy road and ended his life.”

“Are all these stories tragic?” Areum asks after a protracted moment of silence.

“The stories of the lost and the silenced usually are,” Qasim says in a whisper. Another moment, soft with sorrow, pulses through us. He abruptly turns to Paheli. “I suppose you are here for the objects belonging to the past Keepers of the Between?” Taraana stills at his words, and he, too, turns to Paheli.

“Yes, I didn’t finish looking through them the last time I was here,” Paheli replies. “I also wanted to know if Master Ferdinand is feeling better now.”

“I will get them out for you, if you will wait here? As for the Master, I will go and inquire.” When Paheli nods, Qasim leaves.

We turn to her when he is gone. She preempts our questions. “Eulalie told me about this library and taught me the knocking pattern guaranteed to gain me an entrance. She was given this information by Mama Magdaline, who thought this library might contain information about the keepers.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this place?” Etsuko asks, her dark eyes demanding.

Paheli’s eyes brush lightly over Taraana before she answers, and she shrugs. “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up before I found something concrete.”

“Did you find something concrete?” Widad asks, her question a breathy trill.

“We’ll see,” Paheli says, and drops into a chair with a sigh, then rubs her face. “I dislike fleeing from places. It hurts my pride.”