Page 123 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

I strolled through rows of towering shelves, letting my fingertips skim the worn spines. We already had more than enough texts on the table to occupy us until we went cross-eyed, but I craved one more sweep for anything new.

A faint scuffling noise made the hairs on my neck stand up. I whirled in time to see the edge of a dark robe disappearing between shelves. The librarian. I’d never actually spoken to the man—if he was indeed a man and not one of Kazimir’s magical constructs. Pip had told me the librarian preferred to remain unseen, and rarely spoke to anyone unless they disrespected a book. I’d never seen him up close before, though I’d sometimes felt his stare.

Curiosity got the better of me. I edged around the corner, only to find empty space. More shelves, more books, and the certainty that someone was silently judging me from the shadows.

I heard another shuffle and spun again. This time, I glimpsed an unnaturally thin figure with skin like bleached parchment. Perched on his nose were enormous spectacles magnifying bug-like eyes. His spindly fingers fussed over a chained grimoire’s spine with near-reverence.

“Hello,” I ventured.

The librarian froze and drew his shoulders up, visibly cringing at my acknowledgement. Slowly, he turned, lips set in disapproval. Then, slipping a rag from his sleeve, he dabbed at the book cover, as if my very voice had contaminated it.

He lifted his gaze to me, behind those unnerving lenses. “You’re Lord Blackrose’s… acquisition.”

“I’m Lady Blackrose,” I replied with forced politeness.

He made a sound both acknowledging and dismissive. “He throws books.”

The bizarre statement made me blink. “Pardon?”

“When they don’t contain what he seeks,” the librarian clarified, continuing his meticulous wiping. “He hurls them at the walls. Tears pages. Breaks spines. The red volume on eastern necromancy has a tear in page seventy-three from when he flung it at the wall two years ago. The black grimoire of soul transmutation has a bent corner from being dropped in frustration. The?—”

“I get the idea,” I cut in, slightly mortified.

“In total, I’ve catalogued four hundred and thirty-seven incidents of abuse.” He finished cleaning and returned the cloth to his robes with a flourish. “Do you throw books, Lady Blackrose?”

I shook my head. “Never.”

He gave a curt nod, still displeased but slightly less so. “Good. The Dark Lord thinks because he owns the citadel, he owns the knowledge within. But knowledge belongs to itself.”

I found myself oddly charmed by his fierce protectiveness. “I’ll be careful.”

Satisfied, or at least no longer brimming with scorn, he reached into his robe once more and retrieved a thin volume bound in midnight-blue leather. “This might help with your search. It details artifact repair through non-sacrificial means.”

I accepted the book with surprise. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“It’s not kindness,” he insisted, glaring over his spectacles. “It is efficiency. The sooner you find what you seek, the sooner these books can be properly reshelved.” His gaze shifted to somethingbehind me, and his expression soured. “He’s coming. Tell him... tell him if he damages another binding, I will reorganize the forbidden magic section by color rather than subject.”

Before I could respond, the librarian seemed to dissolve into the shadows between bookcases, leaving me to wonder if I’d only imagined him.

“Arabella?” Kazimir called, his footsteps approaching. “Are you lost?”

I turned to face him, clutching the blue book to my chest. “Not lost. Just making friends with your librarian.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Magister Vellum spoke to you? Willingly?”

“If you can call threatening to reorganize your books by color ‘speaking willingly,’ then yes.” I glanced back at where the man had been. “Is that his real name?”

“It’s the only one he’s given me.” Kazimir’s gaze caught on the slim book in my arms, and he reached for it, flipping the cover open before passing it back. “Interesting. He rarely suggests anything.”

“All I did was promise not to throw books,” I said, lips quirking. “He seemed convinced you were the real menace.”

“Ah, he mentioned something about that.” Kazimir shook his head. “Some texts deserve to be flung. Especially when they’ve wasted hours of my time.”

I tucked the book under my arm. “So, did you come over just to defend your book-hurling habit or to make sure I’m not setting anything on fire?”

He leaned in, that sharp, smug confidence rolling off him. “Neither. I’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes while picturing you instead of deciphering magical theory. And I kept thinking…”

“Yes?” My pulse sped up despite my best efforts to seem indifferent.

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