You thank Quill and then you rush, because stakes are a drum in your head and Holt is counting in a voice that makes hallways tilt.

The stacks have a desire path: a shortcut between West-Geography and unbound pamphlets that looks like it was made by people who also rushed. It is not a catalog. It is a scar. Three turns in, the call numbers become a bowl. Dust becomes a room without doors. Your own footprints in the floor-wax confuse you, which is rude of them.

You are not in mortal danger. You are in a lecture with dry mouth. A clock you cannot see ticks like a hinge.

Sable finds you by reading, which is infuriating and kind. “Indexes follow promises,” Sable says. “New scars follow pride. The Atlas will shed if we honor wandering as wisdom. Come out.”

You come out. The rose is still there. Reedfen is still east. You are humbled, which is a useful shape.