Evie balanced the warm basket of bread on her hip, weaving through the market stalls that lined the cobbled square. The morning sun painted everything golden, catching on the buttery crusts of her loaves and the bright ribbons tied into her braid. Her stand, tucked between a honey seller and a woman hawking lavender sachets, buzzed with life. Patrons crowded around her, eager for a taste of her famous rosemary loaves and the cinnamon-sugar buns that sold out before noon.
"Evie, bless your hands, this is divine!" a regular exclaimed, biting into a warm roll.
She grinned, cheeks flushed from the praise and the heat of the ovens that still clung to her skin. "Tell your husband I'll set aside an extra for him next week," she called over the din, exchanging coins and smiles in equal measure.
After the last of her bread was gone and the morning rush faded, Evie packed her things and set off toward the quieter part of town. Tucked under her arm was a well-worn book she'd borrowed from the library weeks ago and had forgotten about in the bustle of baking, chores, and recent visits to Lucas Manor. Today, she planned to finally return it, then deliver a newly mended dress to the manor.
But as she turned the corner near the old willow tree that marked the path to the library, she noticed something strange. A sleek black carriage was parked right in front of the entrance. The horses stood unnaturally still, eyes alert, nostrils flared. A silver insignia gleamed on the carriage door—the symbol of the Council.
Evie slowed, her boots crunching lightly over the gravel. What was the Council doing at the library? It was rare for them to show interest in anything beyond laws and land disputes, let alone a dusty old building filled with forgotten books.
The library doors were wide open, sunlight streaming across the worn floorboards like spilled milk. Inside, the familiar scent of parchment and ink mixed with something sharper. Something that didn't belong.
A man stood near the entrance, flipping through the thick leather-bound record book usually kept behind the counter. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark council attire that looked too polished for this quiet town. The silver badge pinned to his chest caught her eye, and her brow creased. He was definitely Council.
He didn't notice her at first. But as she stepped inside, her boots echoed faintly on the wooden floor. He turned.
Their eyes met.
Evie felt her stomach tighten. His face was stern, but his expression faltered as he took her in. Her ribbon-tied hair and moonlit-gray eyes caught his attention, and he looked almost startled. But it passed quickly, smoothed over by a mask of professionalism.
"Good morning, miss," he said, his voice lower than she expected. "How may I help you?"
She dipped her head politely, though unease crept up her spine. "I'm here to return some books. I borrowed them a few weeks ago."
Before the man could reply, another figure appeared from the back. He was a slightly older man, with lines around his mouth that suggested years of tight smiles and stricter judgments. He narrowed his eyes at Evie.
"Jonathan, who's this?" he asked, his tone laced with caution.
"She's returning books," Jonathan replied simply, his eyes flickering to Evie.
Evie took the books from her bag and placed them gently on the counter. "Here they are," she said. "One on herbal remedies and another on old folk songs. The substitute librarian said they were rarely borrowed."
"Substitute?" the second councilman asked sharply.
"Yes," she said, frowning slightly. "A man. I didn't catch his name. He said he was filling in."
The two men exchanged a glance. Something wordless passed between them. An alarm, perhaps, or suspicion.
"I am Councilman Willis," the second man said, stepping closer. "This is my colleague, Councilman Jonathan. May I ask when exactly you borrowed these books?"
Evie straightened. "About two weeks ago."
"And this substitute librarian," Willis pressed, "what did he look like?"
Evie hesitated. "Tall. Quiet. Dark coat, I think. He didn't say much, just stamped the books and handed them over."
Willis's face hardened. "Miss, we're going to need you to come with us for questioning."
She blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"It's likely a misunderstanding," Jonathan added quickly. "But we've got a few questions you'll need to answer. It shouldn't take long."
Evie's stomach sank. The calm of the library had twisted into something colder and sharper. "I'm not a criminal," she said, her voice low but firm.
"No one said you were," Jonathan replied gently. "Please, just come with us. The sooner we sort this out, the sooner you'll be on your way."
Against every instinct, Evie nodded. She didn't want to cause a scene. But something about the councilmen's urgency and their confusion over the substitute made her pulse quicken. She followed them out, casting one last look at the library's empty shelves.
The carriage ride was silent and tense. Evie sat opposite the two men, their eyes occasionally flicking to her like she might disappear if they didn't keep watch. Outside, the streets blurred by, but Evie barely saw them. Her mind raced. Why all this trouble over two books?
When they arrived at the Council Hall, they led her through echoing corridors and down a narrow set of stairs to a small, windowless room. The door shut behind her with a final click. She was alone.
No explanations. No one to talk to. Her bag had been taken, and she hadn't been offered water or even a chair. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating.
Minutes dragged into what felt like hours.
Then the door creaked open.
A tall figure stepped inside, the soft orange glow of a lamp casting shadows across the walls. He didn't say a word at first. He walked to the table and placed the lamp down. His face, when it came into view, was unfamiliar. Calm but sharp, like someone used to hearing lies.
Evie didn't give him a chance to speak.
"I might sue the whole council for this," she snapped, fury replacing fear.
The man didn't flinch. He sat down opposite her, resting his hands calmly on the table. "Miss, please," he said. "I'm not here to upset you. But we do need answers."
She crossed her arms. "I gave you answers. I returned the books."
He opened a file and skimmed its contents. "According to this report, you claim to have borrowed these books two weeks ago."
"Yes."
"Miss," he said, looking up with a seriousness that immediately shifted the room's energy, "the town library has been closed for nearly a month."
Evie stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"There has been no substitute librarian. The building was locked. And Mrs. Hubry, the woman who normally ran it, was reported missing a month ago."
Evie's breath caught.
"She was found three days ago," he continued. "Buried in her own garden."
The room spun. The quiet of the library. The stranger behind the desk. The warm smile and ink-stained fingers of the man who had handed her the books. A substitute who didn't exist.
"You're saying she's dead?" Evie whispered.
The councilman nodded. "Yes. And so far, no one but you claims to have entered the library since her disappearance."
Evie's mind reeled. Then who had I spoken to? Who stamped the books?
And as the councilman studied her expression, noting her wide eyes and trembling hands, he said quietly, "That's why you're here, Miss. Because something doesn't add up."