The Library of Shadows
: Chapter 32

Este definitely flunked her midterms.

“No, you didn’t,” Posy said, finally sick of her incessant complaints. It had been two weeks since she chewed through the bottom end of her pencil, scribbled down any archived factoid about the invention of cataloging conventions she could scrape off the recesses of her mind, and turned in every exam half-blank.

Now, Este wrapped her arm through Posy’s as they drifted through a fresh coat of powdery snow on their way toward the Lilith Radcliffe Memorial Library—new name pending. She wrinkled her nose, undoubtedly red from the cold. “I got a D-plus on my history test.”

“Exactly,” Posy said. “The plus makes all the difference.”

Frost glistened on the arched tree limbs bowing together overhead, a silver lining that led them straight to the heart of campus. November’s sun wasn’t strong enough to melt the icicles but it was just enough to make the snow sparkle.

A small crowd had already gathered on the steps of the Lilith, but Este could’ve spotted that head of ink-spill curls from a mile away. Mateo waved one mittened hand when he found her in the distance. Beneath her scarf and sweater, her heart hammered—she’d never get tired of seeing him in the sunlight.

“Has it started?” Este asked as she stepped into place next to him.

“No, not yet. Here,” he said, nudging a coffee into her hand. “Got this for good luck.”

The first sip spread heat down to her toes and quieted her chattering teeth. When she leaned into Mateo, he slid a hand into the back pocket of her jeans. That warmed her up, too.

“It’s like we don’t even exist,” Daveed said, and Luca’s birdsong laughter brought Este back to reality.

The ghosts—well, they weren’t really ghosts anymore—flocked around the Paranormal Investigators. Aoife’s nose was tucked deep inside a wrinkled paperback, as she tried to ignore Arthur’s stream of questions, letting Daveed answer. Luca’s hands were folded inside the new-to-her mink muff she’d found at the vintage store on Main Street during her first off-campus excursion in decades, and her eyes dragged toward Bryony any chance she had. Posy had slipped into the warmth of Shepherd’s arms.

When Mateo’s dormant heart thrummed back to life inside the spire, Este thought at first that she’d imagined it. A desperate hallucination. But then, it happened again and again, and a dusty breath shuddered out of his lungs.

Once the book was destroyed and Lilith fell from power, the trapped souls had been set free. What Este hadn’t anticipated was the tremendous effort it took for a soul to replace its way home, but maybe she understood that best of all.

First Mateo, then Luca, Aoife, and Daveed all powered back on, souls reunited with their bodies as if they had never left. The Fade’s touch left silver scars along the dip of Este’s waist and a jagged line across her cheek, but otherwise, the five of them were perfectly whole.

The massive library doors swung open, and the crowd quieted at once. Dr. Kirk smiled as she addressed the crowd: “As the newly appointed head librarian at Radcliffe Prep, it is my honor to welcome you to the Dean Logano Heritage Library to announce the dean’s list for academic honors in our first quarter.”

A grin touched Este’s lips at the sound of her dad’s name, and Mateo moved his hand to her waist, hugging her closer. If her name was on that list, she could keep her job as an archival assistant and actually do what she’d come here for—and this time, she wouldn’t have to worry about the shadows breathing down her back.

Dr. Kirk’s sight landed on Este. “Radcliffe Prep is a place of prestige and powerful history, and while the school has spent the last century upholding its tradition of excellence, I want to encourage all of you to pave your own paths in this world. After all, it’s not about the legacies we are left with—it’s about what we do with them.”

From the pocket of her plaid coat, Dr. Kirk retrieved a tightly wound scroll. She peeled off a thin, red ribbon, and the parchment unfurled. Este couldn’t tell if her hands were shaking from the cold or the adrenaline. Archiving had always been her dad’s dream. She’d come this far—she didn’t want to let her dad down now.

“That being said, I’m pleased to announce Radcliffe Prep’s top performers.” Dr. Kirk taped the list onto the door and disappeared back into the amber warmth of the library.

The crowd didn’t wait.

A tidal surge of rare-books hopefuls flooded the stairs. The thin scratches of ink didn’t register at first, a blur between bobbing heads. Este elbowed to the front of the line and skimmed the list for a familiar four letters, down, down, down.

But when she reached the bottom of the page, she hadn’t found her name.

“Read it again,” Mateo said behind her. He was Velcroed to her back, sturdy in the sea of eager students, a hand firm against her side where her waist had stitched itself back together.

A few cheers went up, excited gasps as her classmates read their names. But it was a short list, and when Este raked through from top to bottom one last time, she wasn’t one of them.

The way she deflated could only be described as a leftover happy-birthday balloon trapped in a ceiling fan: slow, wheezing, and stuck. Life had moved on around it. She pushed out a long, swirling breath and turned back to Mateo, letting the floodgates break around her as others found their place in the program.

“I didn’t make it.”

At the beginning of the semester, that revelation would have sent her into a downward spiral, but she had found her own footing somewhere along the way. She’d waded past the quicksand, and there was solid ground for her to stand on.

“I’m so sorry,” Mateo said, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder.

“It’s okay, I think,” she said, shaking her head, and she meant it. “I’ve seen enough of the archives for a while.”

“What will you do instead?”

Este chewed on the inside of her cheek. Honestly, she hadn’t considered the possibility of not being able to continue as an archival assistant. For starters: she already knew the job. But Ives had made her the exception, allowing her into the restricted area early—her intentions anything but altruistic in hindsight—and Dr. Kirk had inherited the head librarian position with no obligation to keep Ives’s promises after she vanished.

Reports had circulated about Ives’s sudden disappearance, like so many at Radcliffe before her, but Posy’s first big byline at Sheridan Oaks Daily as a student contributor broke the news on the head librarian’s departure from Radcliffe, claiming she left to reunite with her family.

“Maybe I’ll take an elective on library acquisitions instead. Get some new books on these shelves.” Dr. Kirk was right. It was time to start looking forward instead of back. She slipped her hand into his. On her tiptoes, she whispered, “Come with me.”

“Anywhere,” he said, and for once, it was true.

They darted down the stairs, ignoring the inquisitive looks on her friends’ faces—they’d replace out soon enough that she hadn’t made the cut—and crossed the quiet copse of frostbitten trees until they stood outside the Hesper Theater and its fountain. Robin, with his hand outstretched, smiled down on them. The mosaic basin had been drained for winter, and its sculpted, stone tiers were dry, but the base glimmered with copper promises, and Este had one of her own to make.

“You know most people make wishes when the fountain’s turned on,” Mateo said with a laugh. “Did you bring any coins?”

She circled her arms around his waist, reeling him closer. They didn’t need pennies for the kind of wish she wanted. Este nudged her ear against his chest, listening to the steady drum like she had every morning for the last two weeks. He was there, he was whole, and, somehow, he was hers.

“Did you know a kiss at the Hesper Fountain is supposed to mean your love will last forever?” she asked, tilting her head back to meet his gaze.

He hummed. “And do you believe that?”

Este smiled when she said yes. She kissed him, warm and sweet and soft, and she’d keep kissing him until their hair grayed, until their skin wrinkled, until dust gathered on the bookshelves. Eventually, they’d become nothing more than sun-faded ink, a final line in her favorite story, one she was no longer afraid to write.