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The plant was innocent.

Everyone agreed on that. Still, when the judge declared it in his reedy voice for the official record, Terlu nearly cried with relief—after she’d been arrested, her primary worry was that they’d blame the plant. He wasn’t to blame. It was all her. She’d tried to make that clear.

She shifted in her chair to watch while the court bailiffs escorted the spider plant away. He raised a tendril toward her, and Terlu lifted her fingers to her lips and then toward the newly sentient plant.

I won’t cry. She refused to cry when she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Very illegal, yes, but not wrong . So far, she hadn’t shed a single tear, at least not in public, but right now, all that prevented her from sobbing out loud was the scowl on the prosecutor’s face as he glared at her, as well as the head librarian’s hand on her arm, which was the only touch of kindness in the courtroom, both literally and figuratively.

Leaning closer, the head librarian, Rijes Velk, whispered to her, “I will see that he is safe and cared for. He’ll always have a home with us.”

Terlu swallowed hard.

Not going to cry.

Stiffly, gratefully, she nodded at Rijes Velk and then faced the judge.

The judge was swaddled in embroidered robes that transformed him from a skeletal man with spidery limbs into a wide mushroom of ruffled silks.

He reminded Terlu of a hermit crab, the kind that used to swarm the beaches of her home island—his gnarled body tucked inside his ornate outer shell, with only his claws exposed.

She had to look up to see him, seated on the dais, raised high above the accused. Above me, she thought miserably.

He was framed by stained glass windows that showed a stylized map of the Crescent Islands Empire, each jeweled bit of land caught within panes of sapphire blue.

Instead of warm amber daylight, it cast the whole courtroom in a bluish tinge, which made all the painted faces glaring down at her from the balconies on either side of the dais look even more cold and unfriendly.

It was all designed to intimidate and overwhelm, and it was, Terlu thought, rather effective.

If the judge was a hermit crab, then she was an oyster, extracted from her shell, splayed open and exposed to the elements.

She fidgeted with the sleeves of the tunic they’d given her.

It was a gray cotton, soft from use and vastly oversize, and she wondered how many other (much taller) criminals had worn it before her.

She knew how she looked in it: like a child playing dress-up, rather than a woman in her twenties.

Or more accurately, I look like a chipmunk.

She was short and pleasantly plump, with wide eyes that made her always look slightly surprised, round cheeks, and smile creases around her mouth.

She was certain she looked more like a chipmunk than a criminal, if chipmunks were lavender and gray.

Her mother had purple skin, while her father was tinted more pink, and Terlu had ended up an agreeable shade of lavender, which matched nicely with the gray cotton.

But however nice and innocuous she looked, it didn’t seem to be making a bit of difference in the way the case was going.

She’d even tried to tame her curls for the court appearance, as if tamed hair would make her appear any less guilty.

The problem was she was guilty: she’d cast a spell.

She’d gathered the ingredients, researched the words, deliberated on whether it was wise, decided it wasn’t at all wise, and did it anyway.

She’d created Caz, a sentient spider plant, to keep her company in the empty stacks of the Great Library of Alyssium.

She’d made herself a friend because she could not handle one more day of being friendless, of being so far from her family, of living sequestered in her silent and empty corner of the library where the only choice was find a way to bear the isolation or admit that she’d failed to find a place for herself, that she’d made a mistake in leaving home, and that her family and friends were right to say she’d never flourish out in the world on her own.

Terlu honestly hadn’t thought anyone would mind.

She’d harmed no one. She hadn’t even inconvenienced anyone. And Caz himself was delighted to be alive and thrilled to be her companion. The patron who’d noticed Caz, though, had been neither delighted nor thrilled.

Only the most elite sorcerers were allowed to use magic.

The spellbooks that filled the Great Library were for their use alone, by imperial decree.

The imperial investigator who took the case was not about to let one low-level librarian be the exception to the rule.

As the prosecutor, he’d argued eloquently for her guilt.

Frankly, she didn’t think he’d needed to argue so hard. She’d obviously broken the law—a talking, walking spider plant was kind of unignorable proof.

And so, Terlu wasn’t the least bit surprised when the judge pronounced, “Terlu Perna, Fourth Librarian of the Second Floor, East Wing, of the Great Library of Alyssium, you have been found guilty of illegal magic use. Sentencing will commence immediately.”

Beside her, Rijes Velk rose. “I plead for leniency.”

Like the judge, the head librarian was also encased in embroidered silk, but unlike the judge, she looked as if she belonged in such finery.

She was an elegant woman with silvery-gray hair, which had been braided to echo the latticework on the great door to Kinney Hall.

Her onyx cheeks were painted in gold with symbols that indicated the oaths she’d taken, to honor the history, wisdom, and knowledge of the Crescent Islands.

If Terlu hadn’t known that Rijes was old enough to be her grandmother, she would have assumed she was simply ageless.

Terlu was both honored and amazed that such an important and elegant person had chosen to speak on her behalf at her trial, especially given the whole obviously guilty situation.

“Librarian Terlu Perna intended no harm,” Rijes Velk said, her voice ringing through the vast courtroom, up to the spiral dome above.

“Furthermore, she caused no harm. Not a single citizen was hurt. No property was damaged. Nothing was broken, stolen, or lost. There were no ill effects whatsoever from her lapse in judgment. I therefore ask— plead —for mercy from this court. This is her first offense, and she has learned from her mistake. She will not work magic again. I personally guarantee it.”

Terlu let out a little gasp in surprise.

That was a tremendous statement, to have the head librarian promising her good behavior.

She heard the sorcerers in the balcony who had come to watch the show whisper to one another and shuffle in their viewing boxes—clearly also surprised at this endorsement.

The prosecutor rose, his scarlet robes rippling as he moved.

“It doesn’t matter what you promise. It doesn’t matter what the convicted intended, or what she intends after this point.

What matters is what others do in reaction to this case.

If her punishment is light, then I guarantee that the empire will see more illegal magic use, and it will not all be without consequence.

I implore you to send a message to all who contemplate using magic without the proper license that the law is the law, and the emperor’s will is not weak. ”

“Mercy is not weakness,” Rijes Velk countered.

“Your Honor, my counterpart would have you feed the growing unrest—”

Rijes cut in. “Terlu Perna’s case has nothing to do with any—”

They argued back and forth until the judge raised one of his crablike hands. “I have made my decision. Terlu Perna will be made an example of, for the health and safety of the empire.”

Terlu felt her mouth go dry. She clenched her hands together on her lap, bunching up the fabric of her tunic. An example? What does that mean? What are they going to do to me?

“She will be transformed into a statue and placed in the Great Library, to serve as a warning to all librarians, scholars, and patrons who might be tempted to defy the law.”

There was a stunned silence.

It was a harsher punishment than any she’d imagined—far, far harsher. She began to shake. Her heart beat as frantically as a hummingbird’s wings.

The drums began to sound, the signal that a verdict had been reached, deep and low and echoing. She felt them in her bones, each beat reverberating through her entire body.

Around her, the courtroom erupted into shouting. Rijes Velk stormed toward the dais, while Terlu sank deeper into her chair and hugged her arms around herself. It was only when the judge demanded silence that she realized she was screaming like a dying rabbit.

It all happened quickly after that.

Terlu was shuffled out of the courtroom by two court bailiffs. She stumbled as she walked, unable to remember how to place her feet one in front of the other. All the shouting had faded as if she’d been shoved underwater, smothered by the swirl of her thoughts.

A statue.

Her, transformed into a statue.

Will it hurt?

Will I live?

Will they ever transform me back? The judge had made no statement about the length of her sentence.

Is it forever? No, it couldn’t be, could it?

That would be too cruel. But if it wasn’t, wouldn’t the judge have set a duration?

She’d never heard of such a punishment, but then she also hadn’t heard of any librarian breaking the ban on magic use by non-sorcerers.

With all the spellbooks in the Great Library, she couldn’t imagine another librarian hadn’t been tempted, but perhaps she was the first to be caught.

She wished she’d been more careful. More clever.

She didn’t wish she hadn’t done it. If she hadn’t cast the spell, then Caz would have never existed, and he’d been so happy to be alive. She’d never wish to undo that. She hoped that Rijes Velk would keep her promise—that she’d keep Terlu’s spider-plant friend safe and happy.

The bailiffs delivered her to a black stone room shaped like an octagon.

It had no windows and no light except for a single candelabra in the center of the room that was lit with a dozen white candles, and it smelled of tallow and burnt herbs.

A bearded man with sunken cheeks waited beside the candelabra. He held a bowl in his pale hands.

She recognized what he was instantly: a sorcerer with the ingredients to a spell.

And just as quickly she realized what this meant: there would be no reprieve. No last-minute mercy. Her punishment had been decided long before the judge had delivered his verdict.

She stared at the sorcerer.

She felt too empty to scream or cry now. She wished she’d had a moment to thank Rijes Velk for trying. Terlu truly did appreciate her kindness.

“Change,” he told her.

She noticed a folded tunic, a library uniform, on a chair.

She hesitated for only a second before stripping off the gray clothes and pulling on the familiar blue of a Fourth Librarian.

At least she wouldn’t face her fate dressed like a criminal.

She wondered if this was Rijes Velk’s kindness as well, or if they simply wanted their example to be uniformed as a librarian.

The sorcerer watched her dispassionately, and she wondered what he’d do if she tried to flee.

She knew she wouldn’t get far—undoubtedly, there were guards on the other side of the door—and she didn’t want him to cast the spell while she was fleeing.

If she was going to be transformed into a statue, she didn’t want her face to be frozen in fear. She wanted to at least try to be brave.

“Will I live?” Terlu asked.

The sorcerer hesitated. “Yes.” And then he began the spell.

As her blood slowed and hardened, as her breath caught in her throat, as her eyes froze in place, as her flesh turned to polished wood, it occurred to her that perhaps that wasn’t the right question to ask. But she couldn’t think of a better one.

If I live, I can hope.

Darkness.

Silence.

She didn’t know which was worse—the darkness or the silence—but she was suffocating in both. She couldn’t open her eyes. No, she couldn’t close her eyes.

Where am I?

She listened. There was nothing. No breath. No heartbeat.

A creak, then a sliver of light, and she could see shapes and shadows: shelves, a crate, and a cart. There were voices behind her, muffled, arguing about where to put a stack of chairs.

She was in a storage closet.

She wanted to call out to the unseen voices, ask them to talk to her—no, beg them. She wanted them to move to where she could see them. She needed to see a face, to look into someone else’s eyes, to see a smile. She wanted to tell them she was awake, alive, aware.

I am here!

The door shut.

She dreamed sometimes, or almost dreamed, since it was never true sleep.

Statues can’t sleep. In her favorite dream, she was standing in sunlight, listening to music.

Ahh, music! And she was tasting a pastry.

Or tasting a kiss. And there were people all around her, voices and laughter that were the most beautiful music. All around her, it smelled like roses.

But the dream never lasted, and then once again there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

She wasn’t afraid anymore.

Or angry.

Or sad.

But she wished… Oh, she wished. For sunlight. For breath. For a kind voice. And so she dreamed and remembered and drifted through the days, losing her grasp on time and on herself.

In the silence and the dark, the statue endured.

When, at last, they came to place her on the pedestal they’d installed in the North Reading Room of the Great Library of Alyssium, she wanted to thank them.

At least now, she wouldn’t be alone.