The SLS was the Special Library Service’s, the elite forces charged to protect the nation’s literary heritage, either in libraries or in transit. It had taken over many of SO-27’s duties when the latter was disbanded, and its commitment was never in question. All members had sworn to “take a bullet” in order to protect their charges, and an average of three a year did. The SLS was the most respected law-enforcement group in the nation, often featured in movies and on its own TV series. Recruitment was never an issue.

Mobie Drake, Librarians—Heroes of the New Generation

It was one of those crisp late-summer mornings, when a drop in the temperature gives the air a sharpness like frost on a beer glass, and the leaves, which had clung desperately to the trees throughout the summer, were now beginning to fall upon the ground. I’d missed all this in the BookWorld, for although we had mornings that matched the description, you didn’t really witness them—just the description. In fact, residents of the BookWorld would comment on a beautiful morning in that sort of odd metalanguage they often used: “What a beautifully described morning!”

Friday was working the early shift for the rest of the week and so was gone by the time we came down, and Tuesday was, as usual, not keen to go school.

“We’ve discussed this before,” I said in my mildly firm mum voice. “You’re going to have a normal childhood whether you like it or not.”

She pulled a face. “I have some work to do on the defense shield.”

“You’ll go to school, my girl—even if only for the morning. Just remember not to take the dopey teenage thing too far.”

“No flashing?”

“Right,” I said, “and especially not to Gavin Watkins.”

She gave a loud harumph and, without another word, got up from the breakfast table and stomped upstairs to get ready for school.

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” asked Landen, sitting down at the table.

“I don’t know,” I replied, staring after Tuesday. “Whatever we do, it’ll probably turn out to be wrong.”

“Hurt yourself?” he asked.

“Where?”

“On your face. It looks like someone thumped you.”

“I assure you no one did,” I replied, although I had noticed it myself, as well as several skinned knuckles and two broken fingernails that I had no memory of breaking.

“And that bandage?” he asked, pointing to my wrapped hand.

“Oh, that was a burn,” I replied hastily—on a saucepan.”