It had to be the work of the bloody woman, from the drawing Magnus had been working on my first day here. The Librarian, he had called her. Didn’t she leave him messages through books?

I went to the chair and picked up the open book and the stack of books beneath, sitting and placing them on my lap. The top book was open to a passage circled in dark ink—no, not ink, I realized, as I smoothed the page and it smudged on my fingers, showing red in the firelight. It was as if the Librarian had touched her bloody lips and drawn with her finger.

Don’t provoke me—wretched, headstrong girl! Or in my immortal rage I may just toss you over …

It had to be a message for me. A threat, just like the night of that first dinner. But, just like the last one, it seemed to be nothing but words—a threat that would never be carried out. I shut the book and put it on the small table beside me, the bright white words The Iliad staring at me from the black cover.

I looked at the book that remained on my lap, a sketchbook open to a sheet nearly filled with rows of hands in different grasping positions.

The next page I flipped to was more of the same—rows and rows of hands. The next made me pause. Kelela, from the shoulders up. Five different versions, different hair. All of her profile. All a bit sketchy, without much detail, but all exceptionally good.

And beautiful. Not more or less beautiful than she was in person. A perfect representation of her.

It was irritating, to look at such a beautiful drawing. No. It was irritating to look at such a beautiful drawing of Kelela.

I can’t believe I’m jealous of a silly piece of art.

The next page made me pause longer.

My ears felt hot. A couple, embracing in the shadows of the bookcases. Like the others, it was sketchy and unfinished, but it wasn’t too hard to tell what was happening.

“What are you doing?” Magnus stormed toward me, catching himself on the chair with one hand beside my head as he slapped his sketchbook shut with the other. His fingers were spread, as if barring the surface area from being accessed, his palm pressing the book into my thighs.

“What are you doing?” I warned. I’d drawn my knife on instinct, leveling it with his throat, then thought better of it and put the knife away quickly. I could beat Magnus easily, knife or no. Besides, he was harmless. This confrontation wasn’t deserving of a knife.

His eyes were wide, like he suspected the weapon. “Trying to kill me?”

I lifted my chin defiantly. “Of course not. I don’t get paid if you die.”

“Well then,” he faltered, “do you mind? I don’t go looking through your things.”