Part 4 - 5

Sealed in by ice, they’d make the most of their time together in their borrowed home. They snacked on the librarian’s stash of peanuts and their berries, cooped up in a teetering stack of books Picky ached to read, and some of which the Raven liked to hear. When evening settled, it flew in a new harsh wind and promised nothing but a stillness. By the second day, the wintery world glistened beyond the windows, still as one of the oil paintings that hung on the library walls.

A luxury of time to think, and not merely survive, curled up around Picky unknown for months.

She warmed snow over the little hearth with water for washing and cleaned up like an old coin scrubbed of its grim. All the school days Picky missed got soaked up in hours of study, exploring every shelf and nook no matter how wedged away and seemingly forgotten by others. Every so often, a home-like feeling settled in that Picky couldn’t place.

“Like being back in your own nest,” the Raven said, “it’s something like that.”

“Something like that,” Picky mirrored, but within the hour Hamfrill Lane had thawed beyond the door, and a knock on it by the third day plunged both back down to face the outside world.

The Raven’s eyes went cloudy. “Go on, and tell them you want to be here or you’ll-“

“Die? Got it,” she said, less phased than ever at the prospect of death.

Chin raised up and donning a pleasant smile, Picky rid herself of more than greasy hair and dirty nails over the last three days. No cowering snaked in her posture when she opened the door to an unknown face. It was a mustached man who stood on the doorstep, and in his arms, he held a library book clutched tight as a bag of treasure. When he spoke, his lips fumbled together like oily noodles. “I’m returning my book. Did Mr. Gettersworth bring you on?”

“I’m here to help,” Picky said, not really lying, and gestured to welcome the man inside. The Raven hobbled up to the desk and sat as if an iron statue.

The man narrowed his eyes like clams unwilling to open. “I’d like to put it back.”

Picky walked with a shuffling step and pointed to the empty shelf near the desk marked: To Be Returned.

“Where are the other books that go on that shelf?” the man said and raised up his nose to reveal a good deal of hair within the nostrils he lacked on his head.

“I put them away. For Mr. Gettersworth,” Picky said, recalling the name of the librarian. Then she dared to let a little more of herself out, “because the library needs all the help it can get.”

“Right so. The Baker just took on an apprentice. One of the strays from a lost ship a week ago with a talent for yeast rising. He’s curious about how to go about it,” the man said and slid down the book onto the empty shelf. “Then do you know where the book, Apprentices of the Modern Era would be?”

Picky sucked in a breath and touched her wrist out of instinct the baker had snatched mere days ago. For all her exploring, to know where every book rested wasn’t yet possible. It would take a decade to know it all, and that was if there wasn’t a hidden shelf behind a tapestry or moving panel, both which on thinking of them seemed likely to exist.

“Any clues?” the man said and raised his brow.

Picky tightened up as if an icicle slid down her back. Her eyes jumped from one section to another, until rising overhead with an inkling she couldn’t place, but knew to be true. “Umm, one moment, follow me.”