“I’m sorry I lied about my name,” Ory said to him.
“If I’d walked here from Virginia, I’d be wary, too,” Malik replied, and began to read. His brow furrowed before he masked it with his usual stern expression, but Imanuel saw it before it was gone.
“The Red King is becoming more uncooperative,” Imanuel said to Ory. “The bartering system was workable at first. But more and more, he just wants to use force. Why trade when you can just take?”
Malik set the papers down and shook his head.
“Vey is mir,” Imanuel muttered, pressing on his eyeballs with his fingers. “Sorry. That was rude.” He stood up. “Ory, it’s about time I show you what we’re fighting for.”
“WATCH YOUR STEP,” IMANUEL SAID AS THEY CLEARED THE landing of the third floor, where the vault was located. Ahead of them, Malik was already opening the door at the end of the corridor. Weak torch light streamed into the hall.
Ory followed, unsure of what to expect. Opulence? A dungeon? Something inexplicable that had been created in the Forgetting? The first two levels of the Iowa had been fairly similar. Charred, boarded up, iron-reinforced. The third floor looked as it must have the day before Boston, except that every piece of furniture was gone.
“Good God,” Ory gasped when he reached the door.
From floor to ceiling were stacks and stacks of books.
“Our war chest,” Imanuel said.
“Good God,” Ory heard himself stammer again.
“It was Paul’s idea.” He smiled. “I keep doing it for him.”
Ory put a hand on Imanuel’s shoulder, letting it sink in. Paul was no longer alive, but he wasn’t completely gone either. As long as Imanuel was fighting to collect more books, some part of him was remembered. Some part of him remained. The same way that some part of Max remained as well. But the part of her left was not a book—because she was still alive, and lost. He was here because he was trying to find her. He had to get back to searching.
Ory turned to his friend, but at the same moment, Imanuel pointed inside. “Go on in. There are paths through, once you get started.”
Ory stepped hesitantly between the towering stacks. It was like a geometric forest. A soldier on inventory duty briefly looked up from where she stood. “How many books do you have here?” Ory asked as he picked up a lightly weathered paperback.
“About three thousand,” Imanuel said, with a touch of pride.
How many were once there? Ory wondered. A hundred thousand? A million? Three thousand books would have been perhaps a section of one genre, or maybe twenty shelves. Something a person could pass by on their way from the entrance to the elevators. But here, now, in this new D.C.—it was an entire room full of books. It was probably the only room left like it in the world. Wherever he looked, it seemed like there were endless numbers of them. “How many more do you hope to get?” he finally asked.
“Nothing short of all of them would ever feel like enough,” Imanuel said. “But really, just one in particular.”
Ory looked down. For a moment, it felt like they were standing on a mountainside again, surrounded by tables topped with fluttering white tablecloths. Ory had owned a copy, in the D.C. apartment that had crumbled to ash. And there had been another at the wedding—Paul had read his vows from it. Where had that one gone? In all the months after everyone disappeared, Ory had never seen it lying about on one of the deserted floors, gathering dust. “That’s a good book,” he finally said.
Imanuel smiled sadly. “It is.”
“I’m glad you’re doing this,” Ory added.
“After Paul—I didn’t know if I could keep going,” Imanuel continued. “But then I remembered there was a copy of his poetry in most libraries. If there was one in this library as well, if it hadn’t been burned yet or disappeared—that makes me keep getting up in the mornings.”
Paul had signed Ory’s copy when he bought it. Ory tried to remember exactly what Paul’s note on the inside cover had said. Something about constellations—Paul’s poetry was about the sun and the sky, and night. Ory should have paid more attention. He hadn’t known he would need such a strong memory of it. That he wouldn’t be able to just go to the shelf and take it down whenever he wanted.
“General!” Ahmadi’s voice floated through the columns of paper. They scrambled out in time to see her salute Malik from the doorway. “The Reds’ offensive has calmed down. They’re mostly all back inside the library’s gate. They’re waving the big red flags.”
“Trading time.” Malik grinned. Ory saw him glance at Imanuel.
“No,” Imanuel said.
“I want to,” Ory replied, even though he had no idea what trading meant in this context. He didn’t care. He would help Imanuel, then ask for help finding Max in return.
“I want you to not die the same day I find you again.”
“Imanuel, please,” he said. “Let me do this. For Paul.”