“You weren’t thinking at all.” Eslar opened his book with such vigor that she was surprised he didn’t tear it apart.
Jo lingered a moment, reeling. When she was sure she could stand without falling over, or breaking down, she did so. The world swayed as Jo shuffled toward the door, all its prior luster faded.
She should’ve left it there. But everything hurt again. The hopelessness was back, wedged between her bones, turning her ribs to barbed wire, stabbing behind her eyes.
How dare she? How darehe.
“You’re right,” Jo said so softly she didn’t know if he could hear. The soft crinkle of a page between tensing fingers assured he could. “I didn’t know everything about Nico and I didn’t have as much time as you to learn. But friendship isn’t a contest and it doesn’t have one universal measurement. You don’t get to hold a monopoly on grief because you had more hours with him.
“And you don’t get to judge me for mine.” She turned. Eslar wasn’t even looking at her. “At least I’m trying to do something about it.”
“By asking foolish questions,” he muttered.
Jo had to bite her tongue to keep herself from spilling then and there all that she was trying to do for them.
“I’ve already given you one book from the Age of Magic, more than enough. If you wish to distract yourself, go to that, rather than me.”
Jo took the invitation to leave without saying goodbye.
Chapter 11
Fletcher
Jo was under no illusion.
She didn't actually think Eslar was trying to be helpful by suggesting the book. In fact, she was certain it was his way of dismissing her, by suggesting she do something that—in his own words—he had no expectation of her actually doing.
Eslar was right after all. She wasn’t what one would exactly define as “bookish”. In fact, she could count on both hands the number of books that we were in her house growing up.Physicalbooks, at least. Most people in 2057 read on tablets, her mother included, and the books that were in her house had been her grandmother’s—holding more sentimental than physical value.
Jo had done even less reading. . . Unless you counted pages upon pages of websites she’d culled through. If all of her research for her jobs counted, then she was likely the most well-read person she knew. That was what she was good at after all—her work. When it came to finding out information about a job, Jo didn’t let anything hold her back.
Even if that something was reading a physical book.
Instead of heading back toward the recreation room, Jo headed toward the common area. As expected, no one was there. Takako and Wayne were no doubt still at the police station. And if she had read between the lines right during her talk with Wayne, they would buy as much time as they could for her by investigating. Jo didn’t know where Samson was, but after Nico it was more unusual to see him outside of his room.
Jo paused, her feet at the threshold of the patio, looking out over the pool. She and Nico had sat there. She saw the deck chairs, still pulled together, waiting for two occupants who would never return.
Walking over, Jo grabbed Nico’s chair and pulled it off to the side.
Her mission to bring down the Society might be inspired by Nico, but Jo wasn’t ready yet to confront his memory again. If she was honest, she might never be.
Sitting down at her chair, Jo grabbed the book that had been left there for weeks. Luckily, albeit unsurprisingly, the book was still in pristine condition. There was no rain at the Society, no humidity to warp the covers or pages. There wasn’t much of anything, ever. Jo was swiftly discovering that even perfection had its limits.
Opening the book, Jo leafed through the pages, quickly finding where she had left off in her prior skimming. She started reading, but it was slow going, slower than what she would have wanted. Part of her wanted to comb every page carefully, absorbing every minute morsel of information. The other part of her wanted to devour it quickly, getting the big picture before she drilled down into the specifics. She started out as the former, but quickly ended up much the latter.
It read like a storybook. There were characters, a narrative, love interests, and the history of kingdoms Jo had never heard of but could tell the author expected the reader to already be familiar with. As a result of this format, Jo could clearly draw a picture of the Age of Magic in her mind.
She could see the dense primordial forests that seemed to shimmer with fogs made up of starlight and magic. She could see the homes of the elves, bleached and offset with fantastical fabrics and decorative windows. Everything was so clear to her, it was as if she was remembering, rather than reading it in a storybook.
As impressive as all that was, Jo continued to find it unhelpful. The story boiled down to a simple structure: a war of gods, a dangerous weapon, and the gifting of it for safekeeping until a hero could wield it. Jo ran her fingers over the page, the Elvish script magically making sense before her eyes even if its true meaning remained hidden.
Her fingers landed on a single word—arrow. If there was one word that was repeated more than any other in the book, it was this one. It felt significant, real to her in a way that even transcended the deep knowing of the story’s setting and characters. There was an echo of something deep in her that grabbed hold of it and made her eyes stick every time they landed on it.
It hit Jo all at once. She snapped the book closed, stashed it under her chair, and headed back the way she came. She passed by Eslar’s door, pausing for just a brief moment.Had he intended her to draw these connections all along?
She was giving him too much credit. If he had wanted to help her, he would’ve helped her—not sent her on some cryptic wild goose chase. Jo continued on her way, unable to contain a chastising “tsk” for the elf’s bad behavior.
Once more, Samson was startled to see her, but at least he wasn’t agitated by her presence—a key step up from Eslar.
