I watched the first page of the Origin Book grow brighter.
Hope filled me. I looked at my hands and the connections brimming along, reaffirmed. I did feel better.
“Maybe when broken, I am fixed by surrounding myself with loved ones, too,” I murmured. “Maybe each time the reformation grows stronger...”
“Or maybe you are gaining what you need to control the world,” Constantine said flippantly, though I could feel the knot of his emotions—still not soothed from the Basement incident—and that he never wanted to test any theory of broken connections again.
He leaned back against the wall Guard Rock had herded us against, and whipping his ribbon against his palm. Three energy bars rolled down the satin and into his hand. He tossed them to us. “We could use a few spell supplies, if so, future potentate.”
As if that was a switch—or the use of magic had been one—the books still circling broke formation.
Guard Rock crouched low, ready to flip into the air as one dove at Constantine. Constantine, as tall as he was, snatched the book from the air before Guard Rock could stab it. The book squawked as Constantine turned it over. Its cover read How to Be a Successful Dictator’s Assistant.
“Cute.” Constantine flicked it upward, sending it back into flight.
But the books were in motion closer now, and he pulled in another immediately—grabbing it as it passed. Part of the spine was missing, making the book flap erratically.
Grossly Illegal Ways of Communication was scrawled across its cover.
Guard Rock stabbed Axer in the ankle, then padded over to start constructing a pedestal in the middle of the room, pulling it into existence with his bloody pencil tip.
“I'm not certain whether to be concerned about your rock's continuously growing abilities,” Axer said, flicking the flurry of converging books away with practiced ease, as he watched the pedestal grow taller as Guard Rock incrementally climbed and continued to draw higher. “Or amused that he just told me without words to guard the two of you for him.”
“They are going to have to put all of us away at the end of this.” Constantine turned the damaged book over in his hands, then pulled a piece of ribbon from his coat. He stretched it along the spine, securing it in place, and the book shuddered, then launched itself into the air and gave a shake, testing its new binding. It made a single circuit around the room, then dove back to Constantine and opened its pages. He made a motion as if considering it—though with our magic freed again, I could feel his satisfaction. He’d deliberately patched that book.
Constantine sighed—falsely—and held out a finger. The book clamped it, then suddenly voices filled my head and the room. And the books became whirling dervishes in the air, flying faster than my eyes could process.
I blinked at the whizzing books, trying to catch their titles—but it was like trying to identify a single blade in a highspeed fan.
“But where are they?” Olivia’s voice was strident. “I want to know now, Dagfinn.”
“They are somewhere in the Third Layer—but their location is changing so fast.” Dagfinn sounded as harried as he ever did when something was out of his control. “I’ve never seen something like this before. Leandred hasn’t patched us back—wait, what, hello?”
“Yes?” Constantine answered in a bored voice.
A general feeling of relief and overwrought emotion encircled us, even as the books danced faster.
“Where. Are. You.” It was more a demand than a question. “What happened? It felt like you died.”
I stumbled through a quick explanation of where we were, putting off the answer to the other question as long as I could.
Guard Rock, pedestal deemed complete at around five feet tall, was holding some sort of court in the middle of the room—a small subsection of the books frantically zipping around him. He had raised Ori's remains up as well, and some of the books were buzzing closer to brush against the pages. Guard Rock held his pencil stiffly and motioned at us with his free hand—though his body remained wary and on guard.
“Valeris’s Palace? The Library of Broken Books? Sure,” Dagfinn said hysterically. “Find the lost city of Fier next. Then we’ll move on to—”
“You aren’t doing anything else until we get there,” Olivia demanded.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Sounds good.”
“I'm not kidd—”
Their voices cut out as the book shook itself free from Constantine’s finger and flew off drunkenly.
The whirling books suddenly slowed to normal sweeps and curls, in a strangely united motion.
My emotions, so frayed and newly rejuvenated, decided to freak out, especially with the suddenly lethargic feedback I was hearing from Excelsine.
Constantine frowned and put a hand on my shoulder, his gaze on the inebriated communications book. Axer’s eyes narrowed in the way that said he was trying to piece clues together.
Guard Rock motioned at one of the books and pointed at me. The book reluctantly flew over and landed at my feet. I crouched down, willing to do anything to get my mind off the repeated feeling of loss, no matter how temporary. The book hopped forward and held out a corner to me with some distaste. Temporal Specifics glittered on its spine. I quickly held out a finger, looking for answers. Knowledge filled me as soon as I touched it.
My lips parted.
Duty done, the book lifted into the air.
“Well?” Constantine asked, already reaching in to get the answer from my mind.
“The book said that we can only talk to the outside world for five minutes each hour.”
“That is oddly specific,” Axer said, and I could see the smile forming on his face, something absolutely catlike about the satisfaction in it as he figured it out just from that.
“Forty-eight hours in here is an hour outside.” I looked up at the galaxies swirling outside. “And the magic to communicate between the two disparate times is destructive to the world here when used in large amounts, so it cuts off before any damage is done.”
I looked at Guard Rock, who looked steadily back. “The gift of time,” I murmured.
Constantine’s gaze intensified. “So, we could stay here indefinitely, time passing barely at all outside?”
I blinked. “No. Could you imagine, we’d grow old in here while everyone outside remained the same.” The thought made me anxious. I set a spell to keep track of time. “And the book said that anything over a hundred cycles would cause dementia and death in humans.”
I set another time tracking spell, to be on the safe side.
“Hidden,” he murmured.
“For four days,” I said, reality showing me the possibilities and I slumped against the wall. “Four days. One hundred—well, maybe ninety, to be safe—to plan. And only eight hours to pass in the real world. We can stop Stavros.”