It was dangerous to leave Catherine alone – but Irene had to get into the Library. And without Kai to watch over Catherine, what else could she do?

She suppressed her growing unease. Kai should be the safest of them all. He was visiting family – well, other dragons, at least – and was well away from all this mess. If he was taking longer than expected, hopefully that was because there was plenty of information on that laptop. The fact that she personally missed him – very much – was beside the point.

Catherine already had her head in her selection of books. With an unnoticed wave, Irene went looking for a door.

The Collection was built in an old style, with a warren of rooms opening onto one another rather than being accessible from a central corridor, but they all encircled the central staircase. Inside the building the marble of the floors and walls was still white and luminous, and the shelved books were a finer decoration than any painting or panelling – in Irene’s opinion, anyway. She passed deeper into the silent rooms of the Scottish folklore section until she found an unobtrusive cupboard. A quick look revealed cleaning supplies.

She closed the door and scribbled on it This door opens to the Library in the Language, using an anachronistic biro she carried for emergencies. She felt the drain of energy as the connection established itself. The portal would remain open for half an hour at most – hopefully long enough for her to report and ask for help.

Then she opened the door and stepped through.

Instead of revealing more pale marble and high windows, the room on the other side was low-ceilinged and timber-floored. The heavy door that led further into the Library was closed, and the single lamp that hung from the ceiling burned fitfully, making the whole room feel like an underground shelter. The shelves were packed with carefully organized and preserved scrolls; their ends seemed to lean towards Irene, as if tempting her to unroll one.

Fortunately this was one of the rooms containing computers, so Irene wouldn’t have to waste time searching for one. She booted up a terminal and logged on, trying not to get too impatient at every second that slipped away.

Her first email was to Central Processing, before she’d even checked her own account, asking for someone to collect the Malory book from this room. She didn’t have time to find a deposit point, so just this once she’d delegate. Then she looked at her messages.

And she swore.

The email at the very top was a bulletin to all Coppelia’s students. Coppelia was an elder Librarian, Irene’s own mentor and the very person she’d been going to ask for advice. It read: The Librarian Coppelia is seriously ill with pneumonia and is not available for lessons or assistance. She is currently receiving the best possible medical care. Presents for her may be left with Musaka. No grapes.

It wasn’t just self-interest that made Irene blaspheme. Coppelia had been her teacher and friend for over a decade. Irene had known that the older woman was ill, ever since the last winter in Paris, but Coppelia had sworn she was getting over it. Irene should have pushed harder for her to have a check-up, she should have made her listen . . .

You’re wasting time, the unwelcome voice of pragmatism said at the back of her mind. Focus on what’s important.

But Coppelia was important. And the Library was important. All at once a rush of nostalgia came over Irene, a swell of despair at how everything kept on going wrong. She felt a desperate wish to just come back here, come back home, and let everything outside go to hell in its own way. What was the point of trying to support this damn truce, if the people she loved here were at risk? Why had she ever wanted anything outside the closed circle of stealing and reading books? What was it ultimately going to get her? Catherine had the right idea. Irene should be working with the books she loved, the people she loved, rather than playing politics.

Except that wasn’t an option.

The Library wasn’t just about collecting and preserving stories. It was also dedicated to protecting the worlds where those stories were written. And it wasn’t a charity. Librarians paid for their use of the Language, their ability to travel between worlds via the Library, and their access to all its books. They paid with the coin of service. Once you were sealed to the Library and had its brand on your back, as Irene did, your life was no longer entirely your own. You followed orders – to collect books, or help maintain a peace treaty. Although you might have some discretion about how you followed those orders, refusal was not an option.

Irene could imagine Coppelia scolding her for the imprecision of that statement. No, refusal is an option. It’s just that refusal comes with consequences. If you make a choice, then you’re responsible for the consequences of that choice.

For a moment Irene allowed herself to look around the room, at the tantalizing shelves, the scrolls, the door that would lead deeper into the Library – where she could crawl into a corner and never come out again . . .

All right, now she was just being ridiculous.

She took a deep breath and scanned down the list of emails. Book request, book request, coffee request, nothing from her parents – but no news was good news, she didn’t want to worry about them as well as everything else. Towards the bottom, she saw a system notification that had come in a couple of days ago. It was a routine mailing, giving details of ongoing hazards in alternate worlds. She skimmed it idly, skipping over references to civil wars, manhunts and volcanic eruptions, but came to an abrupt halt when she saw the designation of her own world – where she was Librarian-in-Residence – the one she’d just come from.

Warning to all concerned: the alternate world B-395 is suffering from an irregular and unstable level of chaos, cycling from moderate to high. We don’t yet know the reason for this. As it’s only been happening for the last week and a half, it may be only a temporary issue. Visitors to the world should be particularly vigilant.

‘This particular visitor has quite enough to worry about already,’ Irene muttered to herself, and began to compose an urgent email to Melusine – the Library’s head of Internal Security. In the absence of Coppelia and without any other formal superior, Melusine would have to do. Irene described the current situation, the new assassination attempts, the previous ones, the problem with Catherine’s recently discovered ambitions, and added an urgent request that no other Librarians visit B-395 unless they were actually coming to help.

Then she sat back and thought. Was this fluctuating high chaos level in B-395 due to the interdimensional door she’d found – leading to the world where she’d encountered Lord Guantes? The creation of such a door was so far beyond her that she could only speculate about its metaphysics. Perhaps, when such a door was created, the two worlds tried to equalize their respective levels of chaos? That could explain sudden rises and subsequent falls.

But if so, that implied the door had been opened multiple times, or – worse still – that there were multiple doors . . .

She began to type another email.

Irene stepped back through the door into the Guest Collection. Melusine hadn’t responded, and she couldn’t afford to wait. If Irene had stayed, the link she’d created to the Guest Collection would have worn out and collapsed, and she’d have had to take a far longer route back.

This was clearly going to be one of those days when all possible choices were bad choices.