The Castaway - Chapter 3
Clutching the watch and the card, I didn’t stop until I was back in the centre of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. My steps drew me, almost without thought, to the library where I worked — the only place, apart from our apartment, that ever felt reliably safer than the rest of this twisting city maze. I usually felt safe in Metropolis, of course. Usually.
The library was its own quiet world — rows of ancient shelves rising like cathedral pillars, dust motes drifting in the pale shafts of morning light that streamed through the stained-glass windows. Rainbows spilled onto the wooden floor, soft and uncertain, as though the building were trying to remember joy. The air smelled of old paper and something faintly metallic, like the place had a memory it couldn't quite name. Heavy velvet curtains hung half-drawn, muffling the chaos outside. Inside, time always seemed to slow.
Uriel was already there, standing beside the great oak desk as if he’d never left. He barely looked up as I entered, though his pale eyes found mine and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. He was tall and lean, with skin so light it bordered on translucent — as though he’d been carved from shadow and candlelight. His hair, swept back neatly, was the colour of polished silver, and his high forehead gave him the air of a man who had long ago made peace with the infinite. His eyes, sharp and glacial, unsettled me every time. He was equally kind and uncanny, and he wore both traits like a well-cut coat.
He dressed simply — always in dark, nondescript clothes that made his face glow like a lantern in the gloom. A watchful ghost, a keeper of something deeper than books.
“Good morning,” I said, removing my jacket.
Uriel didn’t reply at first. He took a bite of toast — honey-slicked and neatly quartered, as always.
“Hello?” I tried again.
“Ah. Yes. Something peculiar this morning,” he said finally, his voice the slow unspooling of silk thread.
“And what’s that?” I asked lightly.
“Mr Lawson returned a book.”
“That doesn’t sound very peculiar.”
“No, not in itself.” He paused. “But I can’t find it now.”
“You lost it?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“What book was it?” I crossed the floor toward the desk. “Might you have already shelved it and forgotten?”
“Das Kapital,” he said, licking a trace of honey from his thumb.
“Really? We only just acquired that one. Bit of a shame if it’s gone.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, not meeting my eyes. “Would you mind having a look when you have a moment?”
“Of course.” I hesitated, fingers brushing my pocket. The watch was still there — heavy, steady — but the card was gone. “I can’t find the card,” I whispered, searching again.
Uriel’s smile sharpened slightly, though his voice remained calm. “Have you looked inside the books?”
I blinked. “I haven’t touched any yet. Why would it be in a book?”
“I assumed it was one of your husband’s playing cards,” he said, too easily.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.” But I didn’t believe him. Not really.
I crossed to the sorting pile beside his desk. “Maybe you were right, maybe it got shelved. I’ll check under Marx.”
Uriel inclined his head, as if that had been the answer he expected all along — though if he knew exactly where it was, why hadn’t he simply fetched it?
Then again, Uriel was always a strange man. That was, I suspected, the only reason I had the job at all. Most men wouldn’t tolerate working under him. They said he made the books whisper at night.
I slipped into the North Wing and headed toward M. The air felt heavier there, quieter, as if the library itself were holding its breath. Between the thick spines of forgotten texts, something white flickered.
There — half-tucked into a volume — was the Fool’s card.
I frowned, drawing out the book. It was Das Kapital, leather-bound and crisp, precisely where it should be. And sitting atop its pages, the card — the one I’d taken from the alley.
Still her. Still me. The painted Anastasia.
But now it was different. It wasn’t just ink. The image was printed directly into the card, as though it had always been part of its design. Not drawn. Manufactured.
Footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Uriel stood a few paces back, hands folded behind him, his face unreadable.
“You moved it,” I said, eyes narrowing.
He tilted his head, voice low. “No. It moved itself.”
I looked down at the card again, unsettled by the strange gravity it seemed to carry.
“This wing has moods,” he added. “It lets in what it wishes.”
I rubbed my temple. “That’s very helpful, thank you.”
He said nothing. Just watched. As if waiting for me to understand something not yet said aloud.
“You know what this is,” I said quietly, holding the card tighter.
“I know what it might be.”
“Well?” I stepped toward him.
Uriel’s head tilted, raven-like. Listening for a distant storm.
The silence stretched, until only the soft tick of the clock near the door remained.
“You should be careful, Anastasia,” he said at last.
“Careful of what?”
“Doors,” he murmured. “And the things that remember you after they close.”
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