Page 32 of Storm Caller

After we leave the general behind, Rook turns to me and says, “I think it’s time we talked.”

I fold my arms and rub my elbows. By my estimation, it’s been almost a week since we left New Manhattan, and all I’ve wanted are answers. Now that it’s time, I’m not sure I’m ready.

“Then let’s talk,” I say, because there’s also no choice.

“This way.” He leads me into another wing and opens a door, revealing a room larger than mine, decorated in gray and blue, including a big bed covered in soft sheets, a thick fur rug, a desk and chair sitting under a small window, a few sofas, and an entire wall of bookshelves stuffed full to nearly bursting. I gasp at the sight, taken aback at the sheer amount of paper on display. It’s almost obscene.

“You told me you had a window,” I say.

Rook offers me a confused look. “Yes?”

“You were trying to lure me to your room with the promise of a window when you had all of this?” I sweep out a hand to encompass the shelves as Rook snorts a laugh and shakes his head.

“I guess I was tired last night. Off my game.” He smirks, then gestures toward the wall. “This is most of my collection.”

I cross the room and begin inspecting the titles. Some I recognize from their digitized versions available to us in the city. Many I’ve never heard of. I knew more books existed—millions and millions of them—but most were lost in the centuries between the wars and everything that came after.

“You can touch them,” Rook says. “Borrow whatever you want.”

I trace the lines of embossed script along the spines until I pull one out and flip it open, savoring the smell and the feel of it in my hands. “This is incredible.”

I recall the moment when Rook and I had escaped the city and I lay next to him after stitching up his side. I’d thought a place with books couldn’t be that scary. But after everything I’ve seen, I think I might have been wrong.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says, a note of pride in his voice.

He settles into an armchair near the fireplace, and as I examine the bookcases, my gaze snags on the violin propped in the corner.

“Do you play?”

Rook glances at the instrument. “I do.”

“You never said anything.”

His mouth opens and then closes. “You’re right.”

It’s a small thing, and ultimately it shouldn’t matter, but it’s just another reminder that I don’t really know him as well as I thought.

“Will you play for me?”

“If you like,” he says, tipping his head and watching me with such an intense look that I turn away, trying to gather myself as I focus back on his shelves.

“Will you come sit down?” Rook asks after a moment. “I know you have a lot of questions, and I want to tell you everything. If you’re ready.”

Am I ready?

I turn around to face him, and he offers me a thoughtful look. I’m scared, but Rook always manages to make me feel less afraid.

So, I cross the room and drop onto the plush seat.

“None of this is what I imagined,” I say softly.

“I know,” he says. “And that’s intentional. There was no reason for you to know about any of this. Not at first, anyway.”

“Because The Shield wants to keep this from us. For some reason.”

“The Shield needs you, Poet. It needs the hierarchy of your world to keep your society functioning. Without the Hollows and cogs to do your manual labor, who would provide for you? Who would grow your food and make your clothes and repair your buildings? Who would provide you with all the luxuries you enjoy?”

“No one,” I say. “Or it would have to be us.”