The Library's Demand

Abuela’s pozole is simple but perfect, always tasting—strangely—of home. Strange, not because I’ve never set foot in Mexico, which I haven’t, but because the bite of heat and the brightness of spice her cooking always carries is so different from the only home I know—the sprawling library built like a Norwegian stave church, with its cedar-scented walls and cathedral-like silence. It’s nothing like my mother’s cooking either—she’s practically the physical embodiment of the building we live in—with her seafood-heavy, Norwegian-inspired dishes, all cream and dill.

No, the pozole is nothing like that. It’s comfort in a bowl, its spices warm me from the inside out. It’s the perfect dish. The only dish I asked for to celebrate my nineteenth birthday.

Only this morning, I received the expected letter—the one anyone of creature descent on the East Coast both hopes for and dreads when they turn nineteen: my acceptance into the Academy of Shades. It’s both an honor and a heavy weight, because it’s no secret that the Academy is dangerous. Not everyone who enters its hallowed walls leaves.

But tonight, sitting around the table, surrounded by the low hum of conversation and the crackling of the hearth, with my favorite meal settling warmly in my belly, I refuse to think about it.

“More, mijita?” Abuela asks from where she sits across from me. Her thin frame is wrapped in an embroidered shawl, gold rings flashing as she reaches for the ladle. Between us, steam curls lazily from the pot, carrying the scents of roasted chiles and hominy.

I offer her a smile but pat my stomach. “I’m stuffed, Abuela. If I eat another bite, I won’t have room for dessert, and I’ve been looking forward to going into town for weeks. I swear, I’m going to eat a whole gallon of Nik’s mint chocolate chip when we—”

My parents share a heavy look—one I know all too well—that has me trailing off, my heart sinking. “We aren’t going into town, are we?”

My dad gives a long-suffering sigh. The soft light from the kitchen hearth glints off the gray streaks in his hair, which seem to become more plentiful every day. “Something important has come up, Emme. We’ve been summoned to Poison Point.”

Summoned. Poison Point. My frustration wars with the sense of responsibility my parents have hammered into me since the cradle. The Queen calls, and we, her loyal subjects, answer. And if she wants my parents in particular . . .

“She called you to witness something,” I say.

It’s my mother’s turn to sigh, though hers is not nearly as heavy as my father’s. Simply resigned. She’s the one who was born to this responsibility, after all. The true Librarian. It’s been passed down in her family since witches first came to be thousands of years ago, since Inanna birthed the first three queens—White, Black, and Gray.

Mom sees my disappointment, even though I try to hide it. She pushes back her chair with the scrape of wood against wood and closes the distance between us to bend over me, nestling a kiss into my wild mane of dark curls—so different from her straight, platinum-blonde locks. “We’ll celebrate properly tomorrow, okay? I’ll even call ahead and make sure Nik has a batch of mint chocolate chip ready for you.”

“Can’t she just send Damien up here? Have him open one of his portals so it’s a quick trip?” I ask, even though the demon, who is rumored to be the Queen’s lover, has always given me the creeps.

Mom scoffs, her dislike of the demon a well-known and often-discussed subject. “And end up somewhere in the Atlantic? No thank you. Do you remember the last time he tried to open a portal to this side of the coast? Half of Maine nearly ended up in Hell.” She shakes her head firmly. “We’ll be fine driving.”

“All the way to Virginia? This late at night?” I press, unable to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

“It’s only a few hours,” my dad says, reaching across the table to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. He flashes me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll be back before you can miss us.”

I fall back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. “It must be significant if you’re willing to go tonight.”

“It’s a . . . royal matter,” Mom hedges. “Something to do with the Blacks, I believe.”

The Blacks . . . That catches my attention. My gaze drifts to Abuela, who has already begun clearing away plates, as if she didn’t hear the word. The name of the kingdom she chose to desert when my dad Kindled Gray, forsaking the darker magic he was born into, at the Academy decades before. But my parents quickly move to join her, gathering the used utensils and napkins, and it’s clear the conversation is over.

I try to rein in my disappointment. We're Librarians. The Library's business always comes first. But as Abuela disappears into the kitchen and my parents leave to gather their things, I can't help but think that—just for once—it'd be nice to come first.

They are gone within the hour, leaving me with kisses on the cheek and promises I know better than to believe. I stand at the window, the glass fogging slightly with my breath, and watch their taillights vanish into the thick embrace of the pines. Snow has begun to fall, delicate flakes swirling in the beams of the porch light, but even its quiet beauty does little to ease the knot in my chest.

Once their car disappears, the house feels cavernous—hollow in a way that even the hum of magic, which fills every corner of the Library, can’t soothe. The warmth of my birthday dinner has vanished, leaving behind a chill that seems to echo in the vast space around me.

The Library itself is a marvel of architecture, both ancient and otherworldly. Built in the style of a Norwegian stave church, it rises from the ground like something out of a fairytale, all sharp angles and intricate carvings. The exterior walls are dark, weathered wood, each plank etched with protective runes and depictions of old gods and magical creatures. Inside, the space is vast and filled with the scent of aged paper and cedar. Massive beams of exposed wood crisscross overhead, supporting the tapering floors above. Rows upon rows of books climb upward, shelves stacked so high they seem to disappear into the shadowy heights of the ceiling. The upper levels grow narrower as they ascend, the floors spiraling toward a central spire that holds the most sensitive knowledge—secrets so dangerous they are warded and hidden from all but the most trusted keepers. Even from me.

But the immensity surrounding me only seems to amplify my loneliness. Feeling more than a bit dejected, I trudge away from the foyer, back through the dining room where the lingering scent of the pozole only makes me feel worse, and into the kitchen to see if Abuela needs any help.

I find her at the sink, her frail but steady hands scrubbing the last traces of dinner from an old clay pot. She brought that pot with her from Mexico more than fifty years ago, and somehow it still looks as indestructible as she does. The rhythmic splash of water and the gentle clinking of dishes fill the air, but instead of easing the silence, it only makes it worse.

I grab a dishtowel without a word, moving to help dry the dishes. The motions are familiar—ritualistic, almost—but my mind is too restless to let me focus. With each plate I put away, the questions I’ve tried to bury earlier claw their way back to the surface.

Why were they so tense? What was so urgent about the Queen’s summons? And why wouldn’t they just talk to me?

I have the sinking feeling that I know. My dad was born a Black, though he Kindled Gray, and Abuela . . . Well, she might have switched allegiances to remain close to her son, but her magic is as Black as it comes. And a Black cannot be a Librarian. My Abuela’s shifted allegiance is the only thing that even allows her to step foot inside, and my mother almost never lets her touch the books.

Abuela must notice the troubled direction of my thoughts. As the dishes dwindle, her sharp, knowing gaze shifts toward me, even though she doesn’t stop scrubbing. That's both the best and worst thing about Abuela—you don’t have to say a word for her to know exactly what is wrong.

When the last dish is dried and the sink stands empty, I linger. My fingers fuss with the edge of the dishtowel, twisting it into knots I can’t untangle.

Finally, I blurt it out.

“What if I’m not like them?” My voice is softer than I intend, but it still seems to echo in the quiet kitchen. “What if I’m like you?”

Her hands freeze, the knife she’s been rinsing still in her grip. Slowly, she sets it aside, turns off the water, and reaches for a towel to dry her hands. Her movements are unhurried, clearly a stall tactic as she measures her words.

Finally, she turns to face me, her dark eyes studying me with a piercing sharpness.

“A witch of House Black?” she says at last. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

I flinch, my cheeks warming. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant. You think I don’t see it, mi vida? That restless spark in your eyes?”

“I love the Library,” I argue, the words tumbling out too quickly. “I do. But sometimes, it feels like . . . like it’s too much. I mean, look at them.” I gesture vaguely toward the front door, where my parents had left not long ago. “This place is their entire life. When’s the last time they left the Library for anything that wasn’t Library business? And mom sees it. She sees that I want more than to just be cooped up here forever, and I know it disappoints her. And I wonder if it means . . .”

“If that means you’ll Kindle Black?” Abuela interrupts gently, her expression softening. She reaches out, her calloused hand cupping my cheek. The cool metal of her rings presses against my skin, grounding me. “You are not a Black, Emmeline. If you were, I would have sensed it the moment you were born. But you are not your mother, either.” Her voice drops, carrying the weight of a secret she’s been waiting to share. “You aren’t bound by her ways. The Library will be your responsibility one day, this is true, but when that time comes, it will be your burden, and you will carry it however you choose.”

Her words land with a weight that settles deep in my chest, heavier than I expected. A lump rises in my throat, my emotions warring between the comfort she offers and the lingering ache of uncertainty. I nod slowly, swallowing hard, but the knot remains.

“Now,” Abuela says briskly, retreating to her familiar practicality, “this old witch is going to bed.” She pulls me closer, her small frame surprisingly strong as she drags my face down to her level and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Happy birthday, mijita.”

As her footsteps fade up the creaking stairs, I stand alone in the kitchen, the weight of her words pressing against me like the quiet hum of the Library itself, but at least now, I don't feel quite so alone.