The Library of Shadows

Este was going to kill Mateo if Ives didn’t kill her first.

She stood in the head librarian’s office, several stories below the scene of the crime. The door to Ives’s office was tucked into an alcove adjacent to the stairwell’s entrance, and she’d wasted no time ushering Este inside. The room would have been spacious if it weren’t for the monoliths of ancient tomes leaning against the walls. A few low-wattage bulbs hung from sconces, casting blooms of golden light up to the rafters. Beneath them, shadows curled at Este’s feet, as yawning as the pit growing in her stomach.

Mateo should have been standing next to her with a crooked smile on his lips, a hand shoved in the deep pockets of his wool pants, and a bounty on his head. He hadn’t only abandoned her—he framed her.

In here, there was no evidence of Mateo’s escape elevator. A photo of the school founders, an unlevel shelf spilling over with potted plants, and a small wooden hatch that resembled an old-fashioned book drop, but no elevator. Maybe he’d lied about it being in Ives’s office to throw Este off his scent.

Ives went to sit behind her cluttered mahogany desk, the top of it pen scratched and ink stained, marred by the years. She pushed aside a few waxy candles and a lopsided stack of papers and replaced them with a crisp white sheet. The Radcliffe Prep seal was stamped in the corner.

Oh, god. Not the formal letterhead.

As Ives dipped a slender fountain pen into a well of black ink, Este couldn’t peel her eyes from each deliberate stroke. When she was finished writing, Ives dropped her pen, folded the paper in half, and batted heavy lashes up at Este who had been too nervous to sit in one of the cracked leather armchairs.

“I have to admit, Este, that I didn’t expect to see you in my office quite this early in the school year.” The head librarian stood with an easy grace, drifting her fingers along the desk’s grooves. “But I suppose it’s only right we get acquainted since you’re here as a scholarship recipient.”

Este’s blood rushed through her body, hot. There was no way she could pay for tuition if Ives rescinded the generous scholarship that got her here in the first place, and her dreams of staying at Radcliffe were suffocating with every passing second. Like how she was going to smother Mateo if she ever saw him again, Othello-style.

“I didn’t mean to—” Este started, but Ives smacked her lips together, so the rest of the sentence shrank back inside. This close, Este noticed the fine lines drawn into the corners of Ives’s face and the sparse silver streaks speckling her glossy curls.

“Take a seat.”

Cold leather pricked Este’s skin as she dipped onto the armchair on command. Coming to the front of the desk, Ives leaned against it, hooking one ankle over the other. Pinched between her fingers was the folded sheet of paper.

She was getting kicked out. Of course she was. At least, Este had barely started to unpack. It would make the whole losing her scholarship and getting kicked out of school thing easier to choke down.

“I’ve heard your father was an interesting student—unforgettable, really. It was a shame he couldn’t finish his learning here, as a diploma from Radcliffe is renowned worldwide. Although I never taught Dean, it’s always heartbreaking to hear of a former student’s passing. Offering you a full ride to continue his journey at Radcliffe was my honor.”

The day the mail came, Este had been sunbathing on Florida’s Atlantic coast, and she’d spent all afternoon sneaking sips from her mom’s piña colada. When they got back to their room in the breezy Fort Lauderdale motel, housekeeping left the forwarded letter and a bill for the poolside bar on the kitchen table. Only one was sealed with a dollop of maroon wax bearing the Radcliffe Prep crest, two crossed quills.

What Este’s haphazard homeschooling lacked, she made up for in reading. Every town they drove through had a library they could stop in for the afternoon. While her mom worked, writing clickbait pieces for online magazines primarily perused by middle-class, middle-aged women with nothing better to do than read about “14 Types of Pantyhose You Need for Date Night,” Este pored over whatever she could find in the stacks. Some days it was metrical poetry and muddling through Beowulf’s archaic English. Others, she fawned over egg tempera Renaissance paintings and studied the light in Monet masterpieces.

She had filled out the Radcliffe Prep application months ago on a computer from the last millennium in a Wyoming library and had worn her dad’s old Radcliffe crewneck for good luck. Tuition for an elite, private boarding school was an ungodly number Este could scarcely imagine, but she’d studied hard in the hopes of a merit scholarship. It was a long shot, sure, but her dad had talked about his time at Radcliffe so often that she needed to see it for herself.

Every time she checked her application portal from there to the shore, the status read the same noncommittal word: pending. But when her finger slid under the lip of the stock envelope that afternoon in Florida, sand still sticking to her fingers, she had known it would be good news. No one wax sealed a rejection.

The scholarship paid for everything—room and board, tuition, her books and fees. It was the only reason Este ever had the chance to walk inside the campus gates. And the thin ice she’d been standing on had cracked with every hot-footed step she took up the spire’s staircase.

​​”At Radcliffe, tradition is everything.” Ives tapped her nails against the desktop, any trace of levity evaporating from her voice. “We take special care to protect what was entrusted to us by the founding family. Their collections are the cornerstone of our academics.”

Something sharp wedged itself in Este’s windpipe, making it hard to breathe, so she nodded.

Ives’s jaw clenched with a twinge in her cheek. “It’s my duty to protect the Radcliffe heritage. I trust you understand that I do not take my position lightly.”

“I know,” Este blurted. “I know, and I’m sorry, and—”

Outstretching a hand, Ives said, “The key, please.”

Este dropped the brass key into Ives’s palm, hands shaking. Her voice cracked when she said, “I’m so sorry. It was a mistake I’ll never make again.”

A shadow darkened Ives’s blue eyes. “No, you certainly won’t. This level of blatant disregard for school policy calls for immediate expulsion. I’ve just signed your letter of removal.”

“No,” Este gasped. She was on the brink of sobbing or blacking out or both in short succession. Her time at Radcliffe Prep was about to be over before it ever started. The revelation was a hot coal in Este’s stomach. The kind that might burn right through her.

Her mom could be anywhere—Boise or Beaufort or the backwoods of Colorado, cruising down the interstate with the windows down and the radio up. Her dad was buried six feet under in California. And she had nowhere.

“Don’t make me go,” she said, blinking back stubborn tears. “I’ll do anything.”

The head librarian’s laugh was cold, lifeless. “You acted in blatant insubordination, and you want me to let you stay? What kind of example would that set for the other students?”

Rooting in the corners of her mind, Este reached for anything that could help. Whatever it took to stay, she’d do it. “I’ll work hard. I can, um, do the late-night shift in the archives. You said you needed volunteers, right?”

At this, Ives paused. She slid the letter and the spire key onto her desk and then leaned forward, hands steepled beneath her chin. “It is a privilege to discover what is in those archives, not a punishment. Archival assistant positions are typically reserved for second-year students. Students who show promise.”

“I know, but I—”

“The door to the spire has been locked for three decades. Somehow, you ended up with the key, and now The Book of Fades is gone. Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical about your intentions.”

Este gripped the clawed arms of her chair. ”Going into the spire tonight wasn’t my idea. I promise.”

“Tell me where you put the book, and maybe I’ll reconsider your options.” Ives flicked up a perfectly arched eyebrow as if waiting for Este to challenge her.

Este’s chest rose and fell in quick bursts, her last chance slipping from her fingers. “I don’t know where it is.”

Cresting forward, Ives said, “That book is the single most prized text in the Lilith, no other one like it in existence, and now it’s missing. You were the only one upstairs. I’m trying to be reasonable, Este, but you must work with me.”

“I wasn’t alone!” Este choked down a few gulps of air in a feeble attempt to slow the rampant rhythm of her heart. Each word came out jagged. “This boy, Mateo. He said the key opened the spire door. I thought we’d just look around, but he wanted that book. I don’t know what for. And then, he left me there. I don’t know where he is, or where the book is, or anything. But if you let me stay, I’ll find it. I promise.”

Ives’s hands curled around the lip of her desk, and she pushed a forceful breath through her mouth. Standing, she trailed around the desk, tapping her nails against the wood with each step, letting Este steep in her agony.

She’d lost all dignity, begging the head librarian not to throw her out on the streets. Meanwhile, Mateo was probably downstairs, with his stupid dimples, drumming up new lies to feed to some other wide-eyed junior.

Yeah, he was dead to her.

“Ancient texts are not forgiving. One mistake could ruin an entire legacy, and The Book of Fades needs to be returned to me in one piece,” Ives said, peering down the slender bridge of her nose. She sank into her chair on the opposite side of the desk.

From the top drawer, she pulled out a heavy stack of parchment, a few crumpled sticky notes, and a worn Alighieri print. The Divine Comedy in its original Italian ink. Vaguely, Este wondered what circle of hell she’d land in for losing an irreplaceable artifact.

“You’ll need proper training to ensure you don’t damage something priceless.” Ives cracked open the spine and leafed delicately through the pages of Inferno. She smoothed something that looked like an ivory tongue depressor down the seam between pages. “You received your scholarship because the school believes your attendance is vital. And so do I.”

Este’s chest squeezed, something caught between pride and panic.

Ives dabbed the page bindings with a bottle of glue and then carefully pressed a loose page back into the middle seam. Repairing it. Then, she bound the text with wide bands of cotton and tied them to hold it tight. She didn’t look up at Este when she said, “For now, I’ll allow you to continue at Radcliffe as expected. Tomorrow night, I’ll train you here at the Lilith. Starting next week, you’ll work school nights from ten to two at circulation. Dusting shelves, repairing books, scraping gum from the bottom of study tables. And, when needed, you’ll assist in the archives.”

Nodding, Este was grateful she was sitting down. Her knees felt like a plate of green Jell-O.

“I trust that will give you plenty of time to locate The Book of Fades,” Ives said. “On Tuesday mornings before study period, we will hold weekly meetings so that I can monitor your progress. The nighttime hours cannot affect your studies. Make sure your grades do not slip below a 3.5 GPA.”

“They won’t,” Este rushed to say. Not if it meant she could stay.

Ives slid The Divine Comedy back into her drawer and retrieved, instead, a box of long-stick matches. Striking one, she cupped the flame as she lit a desk candle. Prying up the signed expulsion letter, she watched Este, a smile curling onto her painted-red lips. “I expect nothing less than excellence from you, Este. If The Book of Fades is not back in my possession by the end of midterm exams, I won’t hesitate to remove you from the program permanently.”

But for now, Ives touched the parchment corner to the beveled flame, and it faded to ashes. A second chance Este didn’t deserve.