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“Besides, I’ve been buttering her up. Reading to her. Donating some of my own books to her. Filling her in on all the gossip. I think she likes me. She certainly led me to all the most useful books about past academy trials.”

“There aren’t many books in the library back in Slate Quarter, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to borrow one.”

“Shhh,” Clare says, “you don’t want to upset her.”

We walk though into the main entrance and Clare says cheerfully, “Good morning, Library.”

Just like before, it’s gloomy, crammed and untidy but this afternoon sunlight pours through the high-up windows, making the library appear colorful, friendly even.

Still, I can’t help glancing at my friend and wondering if she’s a little cuckoo.

“It’s a beautiful day outside,” Clare continues, “but we prefer to spend our time in here with you reading.” The library shelves seem to vibrate with pleasure, the books themselves seeming to hum. “Is there really anything better to do?” she asks.

“Sex?” I suggest.

Several shelves slam together, one coming to shoot right across our path and block our entrance. Clare glares at me.

“Best you keep quiet,” she hisses, then addresses all the books again.

“Library, I think the two of you may have gotten off to a bad start. Briony here loves books and learning as much as I do, don’t you, Briony?

” She nudges me in the ribs and I nod exaggeratedly.

“And she’s befriended me when no one else would. I promise, she really is very lovely.”

The shelf slides across the floor slowly but still blocks our path and above our heads the ancient chandelier turns on its chain.

“Now you speak,” Clare whispers.

“What should I say?”

“Tell her why you’re here.” I squirm on my feet. It feels ridiculous to talk into an empty room. I’m not even sure who or where I should be directing my words to. Clare nudges me again. “Go on.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “My sister was killed at the academy nine years ago. I want to find out what happened to her.”

“And we think there may be some answers, or at least some information, that could help us in the library. If we can find it.”

The chandelier twists back the other way, the chain groaning and I get the distinct impression the library is considering me and my request.

“Please,” I say, “I owe it to her to discover the truth and I don’t know where else to start.”

Nothing happens. I glimpse at Clare.

“Maybe this isn’t going to work,” I say. “The library is a part of the academy and if the academy is keeping secrets maybe the library is too.”

The shelf blocking our path, slams backwards and in front of us, the stacks begin to dance, churning and spinning and twisting, so quickly it makes me dizzy.

Then, as quickly as it all starts, it freezes, a path through the stacks laid out in front of us.

“Come on,” Clare says, taking my hand in hers and dragging me through the library, right into its depths.

It reminds me a lot of the maze we had to fight our way through as part of the last trial, and seeing as I came close to losing my life in that maze – even though Professor Tudor was meant to be keeping that from happening – I don’t love the feeling.

“This place gives me the creeps,” I whisper into Clare’s ear.

“Shhh,” she says, pulling me around a bend, a flock of library books discarded around our feet, and then stops. We’ve come as far as we can.

The shelves here are especially high, reaching all the way up to the ceiling and blocking out the sunshine up above. Long ladders rest against the shelves, although they don’t look at all steady. The shelves themselves are rammed full with huge leather-bound volumes.

“This is it,” Clare says, stepping towards the shelves and running her fingers over the spines, “the history of the academy.” She pulls one from the shelf, a cloud of dust bellowing up into her face.

She wipes a thick layer from the cover and peels open the first page.

Even from a pace away I can smell how musty the book is.

“I don’t think anyone’s looked through these in a long, long time. ”

Sliding the book into place, she runs her finger along the spines of the other books lining the shelf, then tips her head backwards and looks up.

“This isn’t what I found last time. That was like an official yearbook.”

“They aren’t the books I found when we were looking for information about the trials either. These seem more like ledgers, record keeping. See how this one has been filled in by hand.” She tilts the book towards me and I see dark ink scrawling across the yellowing page.

“Is it the right year?” I ask her.

She shakes her head and I step forward and help her search among the shelves. Soon it becomes apparent that the year we want is somewhere high on a shelf above us.

“Fiddle sticks,” Clare mutters.

“My thoughts exactly,” I say, examining the ladders and their missing rungs.

“Do you think it’s safe?” she asks .

“Probably not,” I say, rolling up my sleeves and stepping up to the one that looks the most secure.

“Here, at least let me hold it steady for you,” she insists, taking a grip of the ladder. The thing is so long and spindly looking I’m not sure it will help much, but I let her go ahead, and I start to climb.

“Just like a tree,” I call down to her as I ascend up the shelves, passing decade after decade, climbing forward in time as I do, wondering if the books I’m passing contain the details of my ancestors.

A great-great-grandfather perhaps, maybe a distant cousin.

Were we always bound to Slate Quarter, doomed to spend our days there from the creation of the realm?

Did none of them have talents, skills, abilities?

Was Amelia the only one who was different?

I’m so consumed with my thoughts, I stop paying attention to my footing, and halfway up the towering bookcase, as I lean all my weight on my left foot, the rung gives way, falling out from the ladder.

My foot falls with it, and I plunge, grasping at the rung above me with both my hands and clinging to it for dear life.

Below me, Clare screams, the ladder wobbles, shaking me as it does, and I hear the dislodged rung clatter violently onto the floor.

“Briony!” Clare calls up to me. “Are you okay?”

My palms are damp from the climb and my hands slipping against the rung, but I cling with all my might and swing my feet upwards. The first time I miss, the sole of my shoe sliding hopelessly against the bookshelf. The second time is no better, and my hand slides that much more against the wood.

“Briony!” Clare yelps.

But on the third time I do it, swinging my body into the bookcase and landing my feet on the shelf. I wobble dangerously for one moment, almost tipping right backward, before I right myself and let out a long exhale.

“I’m okay,” I call back down to Clare. “Are you? Did that piece of wood hit you?”

“No, just missed me.” She mutters some unusual curse words to herself. “Please be careful. I think the Princes might burn me alive if I let anything happen to you.”

I wipe the palms of my hands against my pant legs and start climbing again.

This time I’m more careful, testing each rung before I commit to it. Three more prove to be unstable and I have to yank myself past them, reaching up high for the rung above.

Finally, the years become more recent. I pass the year my grandmother was here.

The year my parents must have come. I’m so tempted to stop and flick through them.

My father never spoke about his time at the academy, although I know he met my mother here.

Marion spoke about it all the time, delighting in frightening me with horrific stories.

She always swore she lost the top half of her right index finger at the academy as well as her left ear.

It was enough to give me nightmares when I was younger, especially after the loss of Amelia.

The highest shelf contains the books from this decade.

There are several for each year and I realize the details contained inside must be vast. I shimmy along the shelf, Clare sucking in breath and warning me to be careful from below.

I spy my sister’s year along the shelf, but not before I pass the year Fox Tudor must have come as a student. For a moment I pause.

Would it tell me his secrets inside? How he came to realize he owned the ability to weave shadows?

What happened when it was discovered? How that led to him teaching here at the academy and not going to live with the other shadow weavers in Onyx Quarter?

My fingers brush across the spine, and I’m oh so tempted to pull the book out and riffle through the pages.

Something stops me though, and it isn’t just my very big need to get down from this dangerously high shelf.

To open the book would feel like an invasion of privacy.

I know what it’s like to have secrets. He hasn’t chosen to share this information with me.

I don’t think it would be right to go sneaking behind his back searching for it – no matter how tempting it may be.

Fox Tudor is an enigma – a very hot, very sexy one. For now he’ll have to remain one.

I force myself away from that book and along to the right year. There are three volumes for the year my sister attended the academy. And there is no way I am going to be able to carry them down the ladder without breaking my neck.

“I’m going to have to throw the books down,” I call to Clare.

“Erm,” she says hesitantly, “I don’t think Library will like that. You could damage them.”

I peer over my shoulder, out towards the library. “Sorry Library, I don’t want to hurt these books anymore than you do, but I don’t have a choice.”

I go to hook the first one off the shelf and throw it to the floor, but before I do, it slides from the shelf itself and, spreading open its pages, takes off like a bird in flight, fluttering out across the library and then spiraling down to land by Clare’s feet.

The second book does the same, followed lastly by the third.

“You couldn’t have done that before I climbed all the way up here,” I say.

The shelf wobbles slightly and I take it the library doesn’t find my cheek amusing.

I’m about to make my way back along the shelf and down the ladder, when my eye catches the end of the shelf.

It’s half empty – the books for the future are yet to be written, bound and placed on the shelf alongside its cousins.

But right at the very end of the row, sits this year’s volume.

It is slim compared to the others – we’re only four weeks into the academic year after all – but I’m surprised to see a book there at all.

I may have been able to resist the temptation of rifling through Fox Tudor’s yearbooks, but I cannot resist the temptation to peer into my own. I shuffle along the shelf towards it.

“What are you doing?” Clare calls. “Aren’t you coming down?”

“Just one second,” I call back.

I stretch out for the book and slip it into my shirt, then I shuffle back to the ladder and make my careful descent back to the ground. This time there are no near accidents. I know the rungs to avoid and climbing down is quicker work than the ascent.

When I reach the ground, I find Clare sitting cross-legged on the floor, already pouring through the pages.

“Found anything yet?” I ask.

“Huh?” She looks up at me blinking, then shakes her head.

“But there’s so much information in here – from what was served in the canteen each day to the lessons taught and which pupils attended.

” She stares up at me, her eyes wide behind her glasses.

“It’s like a treasure trove, Briony. I think it could give you a day-by-day account of your sister’s time at the academy.

” She gathers the books up in her arms and stands. “I think it could give you answers.”

I take one of the books from her hands and flick through the pages. She’s right, the record keeping inside is meticulous and thorough.

“Who wrote these?” I say, because whoever they are, I think I should talk to them.

“I have no idea,” Clare says, turning the books in her hands. “There’s no author.” She looks up at me. “This might sound really strange, but it’s almost like they wrote themselves.”