Author's Note: Gentle readers, please forgive the 6-ish month absence. I was trying to catch up on Spinsters and Lunatics (see my profile if you want details on that delightful little enterprise) – I made two distinct editions of our March issue and both were quite entertaining, if I do say so myself! In any case, am hoping to get back on the ball with this latest chapter, which I much enjoyed putting together. As always, would love to hear your thoughts! :D

Chapter Nine: Headlock

Distant flickerings, greener scenery

This weather's bringing it all back again

Great adventures, faces and condensation

I'm going outside to take it all in…

~ Imogen Heap, "Headlock"

And anyway! Alex exasperatedly reminded herself as she wound her way back to the Library's cobblestone courtyard, even if Serge had written out the stay of execution himself and only went to Valentine for the notarization – as the difference in handwriting and inkstains on Serge's fingers suggested – at the least, he'd have had to tell Valentine your name! And you know Helena saw Serge when he came in; she'd have been in the room at the time, so that's how she knew your name. It's as simple as that!

Still…she couldn't help wondering what else Serge had told them about her. Can't think what he sees in you, Valentine had said. He didn't seem the sort of person to give away a favor, let alone a notarization to forestall an execution, at a quick explanation – "I just met this girl and now she's been arrested" would hardly have sufficed – so Serge must have told him…something. The business side of it, maybe? There was an amusingly mercenary air about Valentine, and she suspected he would have acted quickly upon learning she and Serge were business partners, after a fashion, and upon meeting her – well, there was no doubt in Alex's mind that didn't she didn't fit Valentine's idea of a promising financial prospect. That explained, "Can't think what he sees in you."

Helena's observations were a little more intriguing: I've never seen Serge quite that worked up. Not even…Well, never. Apparently, despite his nonchalant remarks to the contrary, he had been genuinely worried about her. Frantic, Helena had said. Alex frowned at an unfamiliar twinge of guilt, coupled with a still stranger feeling that she couldn't quite identify. The stilt-birds had led Serge to believe she was en route to execution; instead, while he'd been scrambling to save her life, she'd had a relatively easy time of it – after the arrest and bone-jarring transport, of course – strolling through the beautiful Palace of Light, listening as the Prime Minister wove his dark fairy tale, getting cool new clothes – make that "preferable" clothes. (After meeting Helena, the coolness quotient of Alex's new apparel was up for serious debate.) In which case, maybe you owe him more than a weird flowery latte and a scone bought with his own money?

She considered this for about two seconds and came up with a punchy and resounding Naaaah! After all, she'd thanked him. Quite literally. Out loud. No fingers crossed, no eyes rolled. Caught up as she was in the moment, she'd very nearly hugged him (perish the thought!). And to top it off, she'd gone to the Library with him (one neatly disregarded the fact that the Library had in fact been her destination – a notion too ridiculous for words)! What more could anyone ask for?

When she reached the Library courtyard a few minutes later, Serge was not waiting for her outside. This was not entirely surprising; had it been Justin, he might very easily have lost track of the time and of himself in the midst of a research project such as this – but as he persisted in reminding her, he wasn't Justin, and therefore shouldn't have needed more than ten minutes to go upstairs, collect the book the Librarian had mentioned, and be off again.

All at once, she wondered if that wasn't exactly what he had done. After all, he claimed to be an adventurer: maybe sending her off to Helena had been his golden opportunity to cut and run, either to complete the quest on his own in hopes of eternal glory – and, one imagined, some sort of material reward – or simply to go back to his everyday routine and track down another concertina player. After all, he'd made it clear from the first that he was a busy man with things to do – and that, after his brief overview of the White City and neighboring lands, she was perfectly capable of making it on her own. And, much as it galled to admit now, she had asked him, that eternity ago in the main street, not to leave.

Of course, if he'd really wanted to abandon her, it would've made sense to do so when she was arrested – but perhaps by then he'd felt responsible. Now that he'd ensured she wouldn't be executed anytime soon, he was probably keen to wash his hands of her, and a Library was an ideal place to do so. He knew she wouldn't follow him in if there was any way she could avoid it; he could have sneaked out the back – or, for that matter, once she'd left for the Café, out the front – and she would never be the wiser. Of a certain, that – or some variation on the theme – was what she would've done, had their positions been reversed, and for the first time in her life, the realization was not a pleasant one.

Frowning, Alex hesitated just outside the front door, turning the situation over in her head. She wasn't often bested at her own game, and in the nearly impossible event that she was, she would be the last to admit it. With that in mind, she looked from one end of the empty courtyard to the other, then down at the cup carrier in her hand, and decided there was no help for it. Balancing the carrier and scone bag in one hand, she reluctantly reached for the massive oak door, swung it open, and slunk inside.

In an utter anticlimax, she was met almost immediately by a stern whisper of "Not on the premises, young lady – you or the beverages!"

The Librarian was perched behind his counter like a disgruntled seabird, his empty washer eyes narrowed on her in frank disapproval. From their shelf perches, the books appeared to be observing her approach with no little apprehension.

"I'm just looking for my friend," she answered in the loudest whisper she could muster. "Is he around here somewhere?"

"Haven't seen him since he took the lift to the top floor," the Librarian whispered back, crossly, "so I imagine he's still up there. You may wait – outside, of course."

"Nowhere to sit," Alex replied equably, her eyes flickering swiftly about the room as she fabricated a plan. "So if it's all the same to you, how about that sofa over – ?"

"Outside!"

Alex pulled a face at him before turning in mock resignation to walk back toward the exit, her mind working furiously. The elevator – or "lift," as the Librarian had called it, for whatever reason – was the sort that one saw in expensive hotels in old movies: fronted with an elaborate gate of bronze, it would be both prohibitively slow and noisy, even if she managed to make it there without the Librarian tossing her out on her head.

However: where there's an elevator, there must be stairs. Not that Alex had any intention of climbing all the way to the top, of course; rather, if she could tolerate one flight – and in this instance, her inclination toward crafty misbehavior far outweighed her laziness – she could summon the elevator from the second floor and take it the rest of the way up. The Librarian would assume she was Serge, cross-referencing between floors, and wouldn't realize the difference till she walked out the front door with Serge some minutes later. Assuming he hadn't already left, some minutes before…

Pointedly ignoring this train of thought, Alex reached the exit and, with one eye on the Librarian, who had resumed his paper shuffling behind the desk, she gave the oak door a hearty shove and made a swift dive to her left, putting a broad, brimming bookshelf between herself and the circulation desk. The door fell shut heavily, and she peered between two shelves to see the Librarian look up and make a contended sound at the empty entryway. "Good riddance," he muttered, turning back to his work.

Grinning, Alex crept along behind the shelf – easily a foot taller than her and twelve or more feet in length, it provided a perfect cover – and peered around the end to confirm that the Librarian was still entrenched in his work, having well and truly dismissed her, then silently crossed the three-foot space between that shelf and the next. The Princess's boots were soft and nearly soundless on the mother-of-pearl floor, and it took Alex little time at all to cross to the square central core of the Library. The opulent elevator faced the circulation desk, but the stairs – accessible through a doorless portal and enclosed from view, as she had hoped – lay behind the elevator and thus were perfectly obscured from the Librarian's line of sight.

The stairs – also pearlescent, though they appeared to be made of granite – were numerous but low in height – stairs for walking rather than climbing – and Alex arrived at the second floor with ease and scarcely a ripple in the cup carrier. Equally crammed with book-laden shelves as the ground floor, albeit only half as high-ceilinged, there appeared to be neither help desk nor attendant in sight; however, in no mind to take chances, she reached quickly around the corner to hit the "up" button then ducked back into the stairwell as the conveyance creaked and groaned its way up in answer to her summons. Incongruous with the racket of its ascent, the elevator gave an almost ridiculously dainty chime as the heavy bronze gate on this level – equally as ornate as that on the ground floor – slid open. Alex darted inside, hit the uppermost of the golden starburst buttons – marked "Turret Wing" – and settled in for the gear-grumbling, ponderous climb.

Six uninterrupted floors and half a latte later (the combination in "Queen of Light" proved every bit as heavenly as Helena had implied, even with lavender flowers floating across the surface), the gate – also bronze and ornately patterned, albeit almost filigree-delicate and clearly well-oiled – opened noiselessly on a snug turret of a reading room with a low peaked ceiling and mismatched-rug-strewn floor. With its round walls and ramshackle, sparsely filled shelves of yellowed paperbacks, it looked more like a cozy attic or (unsuccessful) used bookstore than part of this formidably grand Library.

At the opposite end of the room, perhaps ten feet in front of Alex, Serge sat in a window seat, apparently oblivious to her arrival. His cream-colored jacket had been removed and set aside to reveal a sharply tailored white shirt, cuffed to the elbows, and a waistcoat, the same shade of red as his jaunty ascot, embroidered with iridescent cream-colored thread in an elegant scalloped pattern. Far stranger still, his feet were veritably surrounded by books. Books of all conditions and colors and sizes, some perched on end, some lying in casual heaps, and all making contented chirruping sounds, like so many songbirds. In fact, in his current state of dress, he looked very much like a businessman on his lunch in a park, sharing his food with the pigeons – save for the fact that his hands were cupped and resting on his knees, cradling something red that fluttered blur-swift as a dragonfly and made little cheeping sounds as he bent over it, murmuring inaudibly.

Alex caught her breath, her eyes lingering on the long pale hands and thick black hair. Bent as he was over the fluttering red thing, she could hardly see the mask or the eye patch, without which – coupled with his unexpectedly easeful pose – he looked years younger. Softer. And, not for the first time, very familiar.

Alex had taken half a step forward when, without looking up – or, indeed, moving at all – he said, "Slowly – softly. I've only just managed to quiet them down."

Startled, she obeyed without protest, tiptoeing around the sprawl of books – a few pages ruffled uneasily, but none whimpered nor made efforts to hide – to reach the window seat. Serge still had not looked up at her, but, as if in unspoken acknowledgment of her presence, he uncurled his hands a little so she could see what he held so carefully: a tiny paperback, about the size of Alex's palm, bound in cheery red leather with no more than 30 pages between its covers. In the cradle of Serge's palms it shifted like a fledgling bird, confused and a little unsure of its surroundings but no longer desirous of flight.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He gently closed the book – it did not resist but closed almost in relief – to reveal its title, embossed on the red cover in a scribble of gold: A Really Useful Book. Serge lifted his head then, betraying the wry smile on his lips, and Alex grinned in reply. "See?" she teased. "It never hurts to ask."

"Ha," he said shortly, but his tone was tender – almost impossibly so. Softened for the proximity of the little book, it seemed. "It took me ten minutes just to coax it down from the rafters."

The book cheeped affectionately at this remark, not unlike a contented baby chick, and Alex's ever-sarcastic façade – to say nothing of her heart – suddenly and inexplicably melted. "Do you think it would like a piece of scone?" she asked, setting the cup carrier on the floor in order to open the bag.

"It's a book, Alex, not a – a baby bird!" he sputtered, his tone falling somewhere between disgusted and aghast.

"Well, it acts like one," she retorted, a little hurt at his rebuff of her uncharacteristic impulse. "Anyway, I was just trying to be nice."

"I believe you were," he admitted, with more than a trace of amazement, then, "You said scone? Where did you -?"

Alex dutifully held up the sunburst-bedecked bag.

Serge sighed. "That's my change, isn't it?"

"Well, you didn't say you wanted it back," she pointed out, "and anyway, it's been forever since I last ate, and they gave us little cups of lemon curd and this whipped cream stuff."

He shook his head hopelessly. "You did manage the coffee all right, I trust?"

With her opposite hand she picked up the cup carrier and turned it so the side containing his latte was nearest him. "Ta," he said gratefully, and, shifting the Really Useful Book to his cupped right hand, he reached to remove the drink lid with his left.

A supremely awkward silence fell – even the books seemed to be holding their collective breath – as Serge considered the beverage within. "Alex," he said at last. "This is not my doppio espresso with two demerara sugar cubes."

"What makes you say that?" was her innocent reply.

"Well, for starters, it has bits of honeycomb and flower petals floating at the top."

She bit her lip to restrain a smile.

"It smells of roses, even at this distance," he added, "and it's pink."

"Right." She let a bit of the smile creep through – the disarming bit that was (generally) foolproof at getting her out of trouble. "That's because Helena, who isn't your girlfriend, said you should have it instead of your usual."

He frowned. "What do you mean, not my girlfriend?"

"I know," she agreed, with a pity that was far more genuine than not. "And I'm sure it must be heartbreaking for you, but she and Valentine are really happy together."

"I know that." He brushed this aside with a gesture, exasperated and – was it? – even a little indignant. "What on earth made you think she was my girlfriend?"

"Oh please." Imitating his accent, she parroted, "'Café du Cirque, Monkeybird espresso, ask for Helena.' "

No barbed rejoinder answered this, and Alex wondered if she'd gone too far. For several long moments Serge simply sat there in silence, his masked face still turned toward the drink, which he had made no further move to pick up.

She began to count heartbeats – fifteen, sixteen, thundered in her ears – till she couldn't bear it any longer."And, um…she's really pretty," she added timidly, "so, um, I kind of thought – "

"No." He looked up at that, his pinhole eye and the rakish eye patch facing her squarely, though his voice remained quiet. "She's a good friend; she…helped me back on my feet recently when I…" He broke off for a moment, lips pressed in thought. "When I hit a rough patch," he said – or rather, decided. Even to Alex, it was clear that he was carefully mincing details. "And yes, she is lovely, but…no. Nothing of that sort between us."

Something in his words made Alex's chest hurt – keenly. She set down the scone bag and fumbled with the cup carrier, uncapping her own half-empty cup in an attempt to banish the feeling. "Here, do you want my drink?" she offered. "I know it's half-gone, but – it's good, really good. There's lavender in it."

To her surprise, he gave a soft chortle of laughter. "Grateful though I am for the gesture, you selfish minx, I'd best try this creation of Helena's. No doubt she had some reason for recommending it."

Smiling crookedly, he handed her the lid, took the cup and raised it to his lips for a sip. Silence fell once more, longer and somehow tenser than the last, as he lingered over the cup. Alex remembered suddenly how the drink had struck her – the strange, tangible memory its fragrance had evoked – and wondered – insanely, to be sure – whether it was making Serge think of her.

"It's…exquisite," he said finally. "Rose, saffron, and something…resinous. Myrrh, perhaps."

For perhaps the third time in her life, Alex was too impressed to mock. "How do you know all that?"

"Botany is a useful study for any gentleman," he answered crisply, "particularly the adventuring sort." Taking another lingering swallow, he declared, "This is amazing. Did Helena say why she chose this recipe?"

"Um…something about sending pretty girls to get your coffee," she recalled aloud, "and, um, thinking you'd enjoy it, since you sent me."

"Indeed." He rose to his feet, careful not to disturb the books around him, while Alex attempted to decipher whether or not the single word had been a confirmation of Helena's insights. "And the reason you came up here?"

For a moment Alex was too taken aback to respond. "I know the Librarian didn't send you," he explained, "to say nothing of allowing you free access to the building. You clearly snuck up here with scones and lattes, and –"

"You weren't at the designated meeting place," she blurted, coloring a little, then, sensing his confusion, she added, "You know, like when you're at the mall with someone and you don't want to go to the same store, so you – oh, never mind." The blush deepened excruciatingly as she forced out the words. "I, um…I thought...maybe you'd left without me."

"And where exactly did you think I'd be going, Alex?" he answered lightly, the shadow of a smile playing about his lips. "I staked my good name and fortune on you, not to mention my last ten pounds."

Alex grinned, wanting to hug and punch him all at once and, finding her hands full, took a lengthy sip of her latte instead. "Well, there is that," she agreed sagely. "So: now what?"

"I thought you'd never ask." His smile broadened as he held out his right hand, where the Really Useful Book lay, apparently napping. "You're going to like this."

Alex looked from the book to his face and back again. "Really?" she wondered aloud, disbelieving even a dream could be this easy.

He shrugged. "See for yourself."

Tired of juggling, she handed Serge the scone bag and abandoned her drink cup to a nearby end table, then gently took the book in both hands. It gave a quiet chirrup as she traced the script on its cover, more in affection than thought, with a fingertip. "Okay, Really Useful Book," she said, "what do we do next?"

To her eternal disappointment, the book did not promptly open itself to the proper page but appeared to be waiting for her to make a move; chuckling at her own ridiculousness, Alex obligingly opened the book to somewhere near the middle. The page she revealed held only one sentence, hand-written in square capital letters: Why don't you look out the window.

She looked from the book to Serge again, curiously this time. He still stood in front of the largest – and indeed, nearest – window in the room, and she turned the book so he could read the instruction. "Um, can I…?"

"Be my guest." He stepped aside, ever mindful of the books, and Alex, equally cautious, made her way up to the window. Its panes were unhelpfully stained, like the palace windows, in myriad shades of gold and cream, and holding the book to her chest, she knelt on the window seat and worked at the latch one-handed. To her surprise, the pane swung out easily to admit, of all things, one of the little silver flying fish they had seen in the street below. It flitted forward to brush against her cheek – its touch was powdery and light as a butterfly wing, making her giggle – then flitted back out again and flew away.

Serge's voice, deeply amused, came from behind: "Alex, I'm not gonna lie: that was adorable. Like –"

She shot him a quelling look over her shoulder. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'Disney Princess,' I will kill you."

"So noted." He smiled, the amusement far from past. "Absolutely no idea what you're talking about, mind, but: so noted."

She turned back to look out the window properly: it seemed the entire White City lay below, a maze of turrets and pearly-shingled roofs and, off in the distance…a floating amorphous glob? Or was it two globs close together? "Do those look like orbiting giants to you?" she wondered aloud.

She felt Serge step up behind her and bend to look over her shoulder; though he was careful not to touch her unnecessarily, she could feel the heat of his chest at her back. "I suppose they could be. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think I just found our next stop." She turned, triumphant, to look up at him, and her smile flickered a little at the unexpected proximity of his face – namely, the left side, where the mask cut away to reveal smooth fair skin, a cheekbone and, of course, the black patch over his eye. She swallowed hard before adding, as smugly as she could manage, "Score one for Alex, right?"

Seemingly oblivious to her reaction, he smiled back. "So it would seem."

He stepped back to retrieve his coat, the bejeweled cane beneath it, and, with a little bow of gallantry, her latte. "Lunch here or on the way?" he asked, somehow managing, amidst all the rest, to keep the scone bag in one hand.

Alex turned from latching the window, grateful for the moment to recollect herself. "On the way," she said. "You never know, maybe those fish eat scone crumbs."

He acknowledged this with a grin, and they made their way back, past heaps of now-slumbering books, to the elevator. The gate slid open on the waiting platform – since Alex's arrival, the elevator had not been summoned elsewhere – and she stepped inside, eager to be off, but Serge hesitated a moment, his grin abruptly absent, his lips tight and grave as he held the gate open with one arm. "I never would have left you, Alex," he said, the words quiet but intense as a promise – perhaps a promise that had to be tendered before he would proceed. "You know that, don't you?"

She stared back at him; struck by the somberness of the moment, all teasing impulses had fled. "Yeah," she said softly, and, apparently satisfied, he stepped in beside her, pressing the button for the ground floor with his elbow. If he heard her subsequent murmur, he gave no sign of it.

"Even if you didn't know who I was."