Not that was intriguing. It could explain why the anthem wasn’t published by WESA itself, or at least endorsed by it. “Very good, Olive.”
“Yes. Well.” She glanced down, cheeks aflame once more, and he heard the rattle of paper through the stacks, as if she were consulting a list. “Well.”
Her response fascinated him. One small compliment, and she practically melted. He filed the information away for later use.
“I take it the library is one such place?”
“It is.” She brightened considerably. “Hundreds of people pass through the doors on a daily basis. Materials circulate among the masses. It’s the perfect place to hide within plain sight!”
“Then let’s get started.”
He pushed himself up, but her hand shot through the gap, fisted the front of his coat, and yanked. He lurched forward, slamming into the stack with a dull thud. Books rattled as he blinked down at her, the hard edge of a dictionary wedged into his shoulder.
“Changeling,” he whispered.
“Slug,” she returned, doe-eyes gleaming. “One last thing.”
“What?”
“I won’t risk my reputation or that of the Society. You will pretend you don’t know me.”
“That part will be easy. This new side of you is terrifying.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was brilliant, as if he’d paid her another compliment, and she finally let him go. “Stay at least five feet behind me at all times.”
“I’ll make it ten.”
He eased to his feet, ducking his chin to surreptitiously sniff himself. Nothing out of the ordinary, so far as he could tell. He’d bathed after rowing that morning. Used aftershave. He sniffed again, caught a stale whiff of cigarettes. But how was that different than any other man in the room?
He shook his head and dutifully followed Olive, who was already making her way through the circulation room. No one paid her the slightest bit of attention, which frankly, boggled his mind. He couldn’t look away.
They crossed the ornate lobby, its elegant ochre, lemon, and cream hues clashing with the sea of dark winter coats and hats. A swarm of children thundered across the mosaic floor to the stair landing, parting around Olive as effortlessly as a stream flowing past a rock. Emil wasn’t so lucky. The tide surged against him, tiny elbows and wool-clad heads battering him like a surge of driftwood. He bobbed and weaved his way after Olive, entering the Reference room with a sigh of relief.
Olive was already passing through one partition to the far end of the room. He hurried after her. She paused, consulted her list, and scanned the shelves. She found what she wanted in the corner of the room. He pretended to study the spines on a nearby shelf.
“The history section?” he asked dryly.
“Of course,” she whispered back. “To envision a new future, one must study what needs to be changed.” Hairs rose on the back of Emil’s neck at the gravity of her truth. “I was told,” she continued quietly, “that messages are sometimes hidden in this nook. Where those who seek answers will find them.”
Emil craned his neck, the thrill of anticipation overriding the call for stealth. Excitement drummed up his spine, coiling in his chest. He knew the feeling well—it always heralded something momentous. This was it. The clue that would solve the case, earn the accolade, secure his position.
Her fingers brushed the crevice, then stopped. Brow furrowing, she dug deeper. Emil held his breath, silent. Then he heard it. A tell-tale crinkle of paper. Her head whipped toward him, her eyes sparkling.
“I found something?—”
A blur of brown fur shot from the shadows.
Olive shrieked and stumbled backward, flinging her arm to rid herself of the creature clinging to her glove. Emil lunged forward, arms instinctively catching her before she could topple over. The force sent them both staggering, and the culprit—a tiny mouse—soared in a perfect arc before landing with an unceremonious plop at their feet. It scuttled away, apparently none the worse for wear.
The scramble unbalanced them, and Emil grunted as the unyielding edge of the oak table sent a numbing spasm down his leg. Yet the pain was nothing compared to the unsettling pleasure of Olive’s full weight against him—the press of her back against his chest, her trim waist beneath his hands, an errant curl tickling his ear.
It was nice.
Too nice.
Far too related to cuddling.
He quickly set her on her feet and put some inches between them. Even more frustrating was that she seemed entirely unaffected by his nearness. All her attention was trained on her finger.
