Scott Hawkins

Tonight was the seventh moon, which is the moon of black lament. Under its light the shadows of bare branches flashed across her scars.

“You are Pelapi now,” Father said. “It is an old word. It means something like ‘librarian’ and something like ‘pupil.’ I will take you into my house. I will raise you in the old ways, as I myself was raised. I will teach you the things I have learned.”

The theory and practice of these crafts were organized into twelve catalogs—one for each child, as it happened.

Carolyn’s own catalog was more dull than terrifying. Father assigned her to the study of languages, and for almost a year she waded through her primers faithfully.

On the way she saw David, whose catalog was murder and war, swinging a knife around in the field at the end of the road.

Michael, who was training to be Father’s ambassador to beasts, balanced on a branch in a tree nearby, conferring with a family of squirrels.

From the shore Father called out the doe Isha, who had recently given birth. Isha and her fawn, called Asha, came as commanded, of course.

But Isha was loyal to Nobununga, who was Emperor of these forests, and thus loyal in turn to Father.

Emily had visited the librarians’ dreams the night before, saying that David required them to assemble at the bull “before sundown.”

Now, as David tormented Michael, Jennifer—the smallest and slightest of the librarians—worked at tearing down Margaret’s grave.