Keil had not slept well. Jace’s lack of regard for personal space and his incessant snoring meant that he had hardly even drifted off before he was awake again. Every time he woke, he was both surprised and unsurprised that Blake was not there. He did not expect to see Blake at breakfast, and yet there he was, sitting alone at a table with nothing but a coffee cup in front of him.

“Blake!”

He looked up, but didn’t smile or nod. Keil was unperturbed. This was Blake’s way, he understood that now. Keil joined Blake at the table.

“How was she?” he said. Blake blinked, an air of alarm in his stare. Keil smiled amicably, hoping to assuage the sudden fear. “Wyvern, I mean.”

Blake blinked again and his shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Wyvern. Yes. Fine.”

Something was definitely wrong, but Keil knew better than to ask. Remarkable, how a few days in someone’s company could change your entire demeanour around them. Instead, he helped himself to coffee from the jug and glanced at the rest of the patrons. They were dining, chatting, smiling, laughing, in suits and clean pressed shirts. It made the silence at the table even more noticeable and uncomfortable.

“How did you sleep?” Blake asked, as if he felt he had to.

“Oh, poorly,” said Keil, stirring four sugars into his coffee. “Jace snores like a wild animal and he has no regard for personal space. I’d have been better sleeping on the floor.”

“Where is he?”

“In the shower.” Keil looked up and felt a churning in his stomach. “There’s some dirt on your collar,” he said, indicating to the spot where something that looked like brick dust marred Blake’s new jacket.

Blake said nothing about it. He simply flicked it off.

Jace was not reading. He wasn’t even sure why he had agreed to come to the library for the second day in a row. The seats were uncomfortable and the company was boring, and the silence – triple suns, the silence – was intolerable. Keil, however, had already chastised him for not helping, so he flicked past pages without even looking at them, his head propped on his fist as he gazed into space.

To be fair, though, even Keil was sidetracked. Jace was sure that the books and books of mechanical diagrams were not going to help Blake’s endeavour, whatever that was. Blake had a book which he would not let anyone else touch, and he was fervently copying text and diagrams on a piece of paper. Jace hadn’t even been sure the man could write. The stupid robot was there, too, but why, Jace didn’t know.

For what felt like the first time in hours, Jace heard footsteps. When he turned, he saw the cute little researcher from the day before in a fresh mint blouse and tan slacks. To his amusement, Blake also looked up from his text. The researcher hesitated while Blake stared at her, then took a deep breath and hurried onwards.

Jace nudged Blake with his elbow; Blake buried his head back into his book.

“It’s all right,” Jace said, “staring’s allowed. She was hot. In a nerdy sort of way.”

Keil tutted. “Jace, this is a library.”

Jace rolled his eyes and turned to him. “I’m whispering, aren’t I?” And he put a finger to his lips and grinned wickedly.

Keil sighed and, stony-faced, returned to his book. The sport was over. Jace tapped the tabletop, thinking of a way to entertain himself.

“What are you reading?” Jace said to Keil.

“Be quiet.”

“Hey, Moon-Head. Whatcha reading?”

When Blake did not reply, Jace lifted the cover and mouthed the title. Lost Civilisations of the Known Systems.

“What is this bull?” he said, wrinkling his nose.

Blake snatched the book out of his grip, bared his teeth at Jace and continued reading. That was the final straw.

“Y’know what?” Jace said, packing up his belongings. “I’m outta here. I’ll be at the closest bar. Don’t wait up.”

Nobody replied. Jace did not expect them to.

The bar was much more exciting. There were women (who rejected him) and there was booze (which he drank too much of) and there was noise (which he contributed to), and he was just beginning to have a grand old time when Keil walked through the door. Jace, alone in his booth and finishing off his fourth shot in the last hour, tried to make himself small so as not to be noticeable and failed.

“Hello, Jace,” said Keil, looking around at the bar. Unfortunately, there were two Keils, and Jace had to blink hard to focus on only one of them.

“No Moon-Head?” he said.

Keil frowned, shook his head. “I thought he was with you.”

“Triple suns.” Jace finished his final shot; it burned just enough to partially clear his head. “Great stars. Then where is he?”

Blake slid out of the storage cupboard he had been hiding in for the last hour and peered around at the empty library. The cleaning robot was still there, but aside from that he was sure he was alone. He worked better alone.

As he crossed the floor, however, the same light at the same table was on. And she was sitting there, back to him, reading.

Blake steeled himself and hurried past as fast as he could, ducking into one of the hallways of books as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Satisfied that he was finally able to do what he came to do, he resigned himself to the search. The archaeology book had given him some names that he wanted to follow up on, if only he could get the texts he wanted. Curious, he trailed his fingers down a few of the spines, tracing the lettering embossed on the covers. He had never truly had the chance to see many books in his life. They felt... soft and smooth, and secrets seemed to seep out of them -

“Stop right there!” said a shrill, half-panicked voice.

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Blake jumped, turned. The girl was there, brandishing a hefty volume by her head and seemingly ready to strike.

“You’ve got some nerve, whoever you are,” she said, her voice still shaking.

Blake looked at the book in her hands.

“If you touch me again,” she seethed, her cheeks pink, “I swear I will hit you so hard -”

But she stopped, and caught her breath, and they simply stared at each other for a while. Blake knew he could run – he thought he should – but he did not see the sense in it, now he was caught again.

The girl swallowed hard.

“So...” She paused to sharpen her voice again. “What is it that you want?”

Blake gestured to the book in her hand.

She hesitated, looked at the book, turned back to him.

“You... you want this?” She held out the tome, but Blake did not move. He wanted to. “Here,” she said, her voice softer, kinder. “Take it. I was going to put it back anyway.”

“Are you going to hit me with it?” he said. Her eyes widened.

“Goodness, no. It’s Shakespeare. I can’t hit anyone with Shakespeare.”

“Why not?”

She started in a scandalised double-take. “Shakespeare is a genius. It would be wrong to commit violence with his work. Have you never read any?”

Blake did not speak. He was not sure what the right answer was. The girl lowered the book at last and tilted her head.

“I saw you here earlier,” she said. “What are you looking for?”

The answer should have been obvious, but Blake answered anyway.

“Books.”

“On what?”

“It’s...” He looked back at the shelf, fidgeted by his pocket. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Well,” said the girl, with some genuine friendliness, this time, “if you can figure it out, I might be able to help you. I’m a librarian.” She lowered her voice. “Sort of.”

If he was going to run, he should have already done it. Taking her help seemed like a step too far, though. She was a stranger and he had pulled enough strangers into this already. And he was dangerous. A nice, kind librarian should not be involved with the likes of him.

But she took a few steps closer and held out the book again.

“Why don’t you start there, and come and find me if you need me?” she said.

Blake inched forwards, took the book and backed away. The girl smiled.

“I’m just over there.” She pointed towards the lit table. “Take as long as you want.”

She walked away, her little ponytail bouncing behind her. Blake clutched the book to his heart.

Clara’s heart was pounding but in all, she felt like she had done a little good in the strange man’s life. There was a sense of loss she felt from him, of confusion. If anyone could fill that sort of gaping void, it would be Shakespeare.

She returned to her seat and shifted her notebook closer, rereading her careful notes. If she was right, she had reached a dead end, finally, after years. She did not want to be right.

Not soon after she sat, though, there was a noise. It seemed deliberate, like the person wanted her to know they were there, and when she looked up, the strange man was there. In the shadows, the huge bruise around his neck was darker than midnight; she wondered how he had got into such a mess.

“This is in a foreign language,” he said, in his croaky little voice, and held the book out for her. She smiled, shook her head.

“Not at all. Just an old one.”

“Whatever it is, it isn’t Basic.” He set it on the table gently. “But thank you anyway.”

It was a shame, but Clara understood. Reading Shakespeare as a novice was a monumental task.

“Did you find what it was you were looking for yet?” she said.

The man paused. His hand twitched by his pocket, again, and she again noticed the spherical bulge against his leg. Resigned, he looked around, sighed and pulled the object out.

It was an orb, made of metal as far as she could tell, with a swirling oil-slick pattern shimmering across it. Even in the minimal light provided by her desk lamp, she could see that the surface had curving engravings on it. It was an odd piece of art, but she was immediately fascinated by it, drawn in by it.

The man held it closer, on his palm. “I need to know what this is,” he said.

Clara frowned and turned the lamp on it. There were joins in it, like it was supposed to have a latch or a catch to pop it open.

“How does it...?” she said, imitating an opening motion.

“I don’t know.”

Clara looked up at the man’s face. His eyes. So bright, so silver. What made a man’s pupils disappear like that? He pursed his lips and turned away.

“If you can’t help me,” he said, “then-”

“Oh no, I think I could if I had enough time,” she said quickly, not wanting him to take the sphere away. “Where did you find it?”

“It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“Someone -” And he stopped, and caught himself, and said in a more level tone, “Someone who knew more than I do. They seemed to think it... it belonged to me, somehow.”

Intriguing. Clara tugged her notebook closer. It was crammed to bursting with scraps and pulled out pages, held in place by a red ribbon, which she untied so that she could flick through the pages.

But as she did so, the man slammed his hand onto one of the pages and said, “There.”

“What?”

“That figure.”

He lifted his hand. Beneath it was a picture of the robed man.

“What’s that?” the stranger said.

“That old thing?” said Clara, staring longingly at it. “An archaeological mystery, I’m afraid. There’s something about it that...” But she sighed. This man did not need to know her family history. “Who knows?” she said. “Archaeologists have been wondering about this man for decades. That’s what I’m working on, actually. I’m an archaeologist. Not a librarian.” The clarification, though, irritated her. “But I may as well be. I spend so much time in here that -”

“I think,” said the man in an awestruck voice, “that he’s what I’m looking for.”

Clara stopped her monologue and stared at the strange man. His eyes were fixed on the picture of the robed man that she had drawn so many times, she saw him in her sleep. How on the Landing could he possibly -?

And then he looked up, right at her, and something clicked into place between them, like a final tumbler in a lock finally settled.

She had read, numerous times, about fate and destiny. She had never thought she would feel it reach out for her.

“My name is Clara Robertson,” she said, and held out her hand. “It would appear that we’re looking for the same thing.”

The man blinked, stared at her hand, then took it carefully, like he was scared he might crush it.

“Blake,” he said.

“Blake?”

“Yes.”

“Like William Blake?”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Never mind.” They released their hands. “Why are you looking for him?”

“Because I think,” said Blake, choosing his words carefully, “I think if I knew who he was, I would know a lot more.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

Then they both turned, because a commotion erupted in the lobby.

“What’s going on?” said Clara as voices floated through.

Blake scowled. “Jace,” he spat, and began stamping towards the main doors. Clara scooped up as many books as she could carry, alongside her notebook, and scurried after him.

In the lobby, the sharply-dressed tall man from before was arguing with the cleaning robot and the smaller, skinnier man was in the custody of the security bots, but nobody seemed much concerned about his welfare.

“Who do you think you are?” the tall man said, pointing his finger in the cleaning robot’s face. “Look, all I want is to get in and see if there’s someone in there -”

The robot turned and saw Clara. “Miss Clara, help me!” it trilled.

“It’s all right, don’t worry!” she said, rushing forwards. She put herself squarely between the robot and the tall man – who, she immediately noticed, was steaming drunk. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded. “Get out!”

“Blake!” cried the man in custody.

“I -” started the drunk man, and then he saw Clara and a smile crossed his face. “Well hey there, beautiful.”

Clara scoffed. “Oh, please.”

“It’s okay,” said Blake, stepping forwards and grabbing the drunk’s sleeve at the shoulder. “We’re just leaving.”

“Aren’t you going to invite her out for a drink with us?” the drunk said, stumbling slightly as Blake pulled him.

“I’m not going to subject her to you for any longer than necessary,” Blake said, still pulling.

The security robots, seeing that the danger had passed, released the little man, who smiled shyly and waved at Clara.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hey, beautiful, why don’t you come out with us?”

“Jace, let’s go.”

And finally the three men crossed the threshold to the street, and Blake kicked the door shut.

In the sudden calm and quiet, Clara realised that she had not made any arrangements to meet Blake. She was never going to find him again if he left. She sighed deeply, rushed out and stood at the doorway.

“Blake!”

He turned, his hand still gripping the drunk’s shoulder sleeve.

“Meet me here tomorrow morning,” she called. “I’ll see if I can help.”

Blake nodded, turned and dragged the drunk away, who yelled, “Hey, Moon-Head, let go!”

Nobody saw the single, green LED light slide into the shadows and suddenly shut off.