She was watching him with just as much wariness as he felt himself. ‘All I need is a few more days. Are you going to turn me in?’

He should, he knew; if anything would get him a posting at the Library, completely eliminate any chance that he’d be sent off … there she was, his golden goose. A stray Obscurist, the rarest of all birds by her own admission.

He knew that was how he should see her, but all he could see was a girl. He’d spent his entire childhood as a fugitive from one thing or another. From his father. From the Garda. From his future.

So he said, ‘No. I won’t turn you in.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘As simple as that. I understand what it’s like to run. Besides, you said Wolfe already knows. Who would I tell?’

Morgan closed her eyes tight in sudden relief. Now that she wasn’t looking at him, he could stare freely. It was the same face, but there was something different about her, too. Something subtle and strong she’d taken great pains to hide, and wasn’t hiding any more. Not from him.

‘Morgan. How old are you? Really?’

‘I didn’t lie. I’m sixteen,’ she said, and opened her eyes again. He looked away. ‘I’ve been running for months. Training in secret.’

‘Training with who?’

‘I won’t tell you that, Jess. I know you have secrets of your own, so let me keep mine.’

‘All right. Are you really from Oxford?’

He met her eyes again, briefly, but it didn’t help. If she was lying, she was better prepared to do it well now. ‘I was born there,’ she said. ‘My father’s still there. And I’m going back as soon as I’m done. Another day or two, I promise. You won’t have to keep my secret for long.’

‘How do you plan to get out of Alexandria?’

Her lips curled a little on the edges, making shadows. ‘I’ll fail one of the tests, and lose a lottery drawing, and I’ll be off. No one will suspect a thing, and by that time the records will only show that I’m Morgan Hault, failed student. No one will know I was ever anything else.’

‘Well, while you’re altering records, put me at the top of the class. It’d be a nice change.’

She crossed to sit down on the divan across from him, and pulled her feet up beneath her. Graceful and easy, and deceptively familiar; he’d seen her in this pose many times. It’s a role. She’s just playing at being one of us. But it didn’t seem that way. It had seemed to him that she’d genuinely relaxed in his presence, as if she felt safe.

‘Do you know what you’re giving up?’ he asked. ‘I know you didn’t ask for it, but being an Obscurist must be important work. You’d be part of the Library for life, automatically a gold band … they’d pamper you like a queen.’

‘You really don’t know anything about it, do you?’ She rested her chin on a fist and braced her elbow on the worn velvet arm of the divan. Across the room, the fire cracked and sparked, the room felt warm and peaceful. Strange, given what they were discussing. ‘I told you, Obscurists are taken. Dragged from their families as soon as they’re identified. Forced into the Iron Tower. Those gold bands you speak of? For an Obscurist, it’s a collar locked around your throat that never comes off. No freedom. No way to leave.’ She studied him for a few silent seconds. ‘I’d rather die. You would, too. I know that much about you, Jess.’

‘I expect you do,’ he said. ‘If you’re using the blanks to get into the Codex and alter your records, that means you can read those records,’ he said. ‘Which means you also know everything they know about all of us. You’re too sharp not to have done your research.’

That got him a sudden, sharp look, as if he’d unnerved her. ‘And?’

‘I need to know what it says about me.’

‘Not much. Your father should be more careful when he writes to you. I could tell that it was some type of code. I don’t know what it meant, but if I thought he was sending you instructions, someone else might have guessed it too. They could be watching you.’ She picked at a loose thread on the arm of the divan. ‘I haven’t been able to get deeper than that. It takes time, I told you, and I’ve been more concerned about finding my own records than yours.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me what that suspicious message was about?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not my business.’

‘How do you know I’m not some kind of Burner, here to blow up the place?’

‘Are you?’

‘I think the better question is, are you?’

They were suddenly locked in a wide-eyed stare, and it occurred to Jess that it was just … insanely ridiculous. A spy for smugglers and a hidden Obscurist, and all they could do was ask each other if they were Burners.

It was so sad it was actually funny.

Jess got up and searched behind the blanks on the far wall, where he knew Portero had hidden a half-empty bottle of wine. He poured two glasses and handed one to Morgan. ‘Cheers to well-kept secrets.’

She tipped her glass vaguely in his direction. ‘So you’re not here for the obvious reasons, either.’

‘Doubt it’s even just the two of us. Danton seems to know quite a lot about Burner tactics. Even Khalila worries me from time to time.’ He took a deep gulp. Cheap stuff, but it didn’t matter.

‘Did you want to come here? To the Library?’

‘I was sent. Mostly my father’s idea. He’s …’ Jess shook his head. ‘It’s not something I can talk about.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ll be gone soon. It won’t matter. And I know how hard it is keeping secrets. Sometimes, you just need to tell them.’ She let out a strange little laugh, fragile and oddly charming. ‘I should be terrified, because you know about me. I haven’t trusted anyone in so long. But instead I feel … I feel better that you know.’ She took another drink, and didn’t quite look at him. ‘I feel safer.’

He hadn’t known, until that moment, how desperately he craved that feeling … the feeling of letting down his guard, of having someone see him for who he really was. Not the Jess Brightwell he’d constructed over the years, his silent lie to everyone outside his family. Go on, some mad little voice inside him said. Who can she tell? You can send her to the Tower with a wrong word. He could tell a little. Just the worst of it.

‘Do you know what an ink-licker is?’ he asked her, and startled her. She turned towards him, eyes going wide.

‘Not really. Only that it’s—’

‘Perverted? Yeah. It is.’ He pulled in a deep breath and let it slowly trickle out. ‘I saw one eat a book. The rarest book in the world, Aristotle’s On Sphere Making. And I gave it to him. Wasn’t supposed to go that way, I thought he was just – just a collector. But he chewed it up, like it was the rarest feast. Sickest thing I ever saw.’

She covered her mouth with her hand, stricken, and he liked her the better for that. For the horror in her eyes. ‘That’s appalling,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. How … when …?’

‘I was ten,’ he said. ‘Ten years old. He’s dead now, the ink-licker.’

‘How did you get your hands on an original book like—’ She stopped herself and studied him for a long moment, then shook her head. ‘I think I can guess. Don’t tell me.’

He waited for the inevitable look of shock, or revulsion. When it didn’t come, Jess said, ‘Now you can turn me in, too. I suppose that makes us even.’

Morgan didn’t say anything. Her expression said volumes, though. She understood being out of place. Being alone, always. Burdened with secrets and afraid of every wrong word.

They had a great deal in common. How strange.

He finished his wine in the warm, comfortable silence. For the first time in a long time, he felt relaxed. I probably just made a terrible mistake, he thought. But it might have been worth it to feel this way. To feel … free.

He finally said, ‘Aren’t you afraid? Being in the enemy camp?’

Morgan gazed at him for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer, and then she slowly smiled and sipped her wine. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘From the moment I left Oxford until now, I’ve been absolutely terrified.’