After a short rest, Veyn headed back outside, through that same freezing, claustrophobic alley.
As usual, the wind curled through it and sent a shiver down his spine that he pretended wasn't there. He stepped back out onto Brindle Street, where the city's hum swallowed him whole.
Northwynd Borough was alive again, if you could call it that. Built for the working class and forgotten by everyone else, the borough leaned inward on itself like a dying man. Narrow homes, each stacked like bricks, leaned shoulder to shoulder with crooked storefronts and shuttered windows. Stone gutters overflowed with frozen runoff, while strings of damp laundry danced above the street. The smell? A cocktail of old coal smoke, wet stone, and piss.
Frostpoint, in all its glory.
Still, a packed street made for perfect cover. Case in point, just ahead, a well dressed woman wove carefully through the slush near the corner of 53rd and Brindle, trying to avoid both puddles and people. She clutched her worn, leather purse like a holy relic.
Too careful.
Grinning, Veyn picked up his pace and slammed into her shoulder first, sending her flailing sideways into a half shoveled drift in front of a residential building. She landed with an undignified yelp.
"What the hell is wrong with that kid!?"
"I know! Who just does that?"
'I do that.' Veyn thought, flashing a dry smile as he darted away through a thicket of chimney. 'Don't any of you people know how to have fun? Well fun for yourself… and at the expense of others.'
His thoughts grew silent for a while.
He jogged a block and glancing up at a nearby sign nailed crookedly into a leaning gaslamp, Veyn muttered to himself.
"Blythe Street, Blythe Street… oh." He stopped. "I went the wrong way."
Turning to double back, he caught sight of the reason he went the wrong way. Hat askew, snow still clinging to her fur trimmed coat. Her eyes narrowed when they met his.
He glanced back once, just once, at the woman brushing snow off her coat, her hands trembling more than they should've. The crowd swallowed her, but the image stuck.
'Why'd I do that?'
That hadn't been fun, not really, not in the way he'd told himself it would be. It felt hollow now, like laughing at a joke no one else found funny.
And for a moment, he hated himself for doing it.
Finally, he reached the Library of Blythe Street. A tall, narrow wedge of a building squeezed between a tailors and a little cafe where people would often come for a morning read and coffee
The library's windows were fogged over. Behind them, gaslamps flickered, casting yellow light into the day. The building itself was a three story beast of old stone, its face chipped from decades of snow and street salt. The front door was a stubborn slab of worn oak, etched with dozens of initials carved by brave, bored children.
Veyn grabbed the handle, braced himself. Three... two... one… CREEEEAAAK.
The groan of the door was so loud even pedestrians across the street turned their heads in unison. As always.
Inside, the air was warmer but dry, almost brittle, with the heavy scent of paper and book mold. Veyn instinctively straightened up, his boots clicking more carefully on the creaky wooden floor.
No jokes, no thievery, not here. This is holy ground. pull anything and you'll be banished forever. And I haven't even finished the west wing yet.
The entry hall was quiet but not empty. A pale boy scribbled notes in a journal on a bench beneath the directory map. An older woman read a thick tome, occasionally mouthing the words. Behind the front desk sat a familiar warden of silence. Miss Cordwyn, librarian with a memory of iron.
"What can I do for you? Henry Atham, was it?"
She gave him a look like she was already pulling up a memory file. Veyn didn't smile. Instead, he gave a practiced cough and said flatly.
"You remember? Uhh nevermind. Can I speak to the owner?"
Cordwyn's brow arched. "Uh… I suppose. Give me a moment."
As she disappeared behind a curtain of dust colored velvet, Veyn exhaled slowly. Of course she recognized me. Checked me in here a week ago. No way she'd believe I'm Edmund Hargrave.
A moment later, out shuffled the owner himself, Mr. Elleridge, older and slower, and exactly what Veyn needed.
"What can I do for you?" the man asked, voice soft and crumbly.
"I'd like to check into the library," Veyn replied, deadpan.
The old man blinked. "And you needed me for that?"
"That I did."
Before Cordwyn could step back in and question, Veyn continued smoothly.
"Edmund Hargrave. 352 Willow Street."
Mr. Elleridge squinted at him, then bent down behind the desk. From the drawer, he pulled out a thick leather ledger. No title. Just dust. He opened to the H section..
"Hargrave… Hargrave… Ah, yes. Edmund Hargrave. There you are." He smiled, then paused. "Say you've already got a book checked out. Why back so soon?"
Veyn was already drifting toward the books, turning back just enough to shrug.
"Oh, I already read it. But my little sister wanted to read it too. You know how kids are. Always asking questions about everything. I told her, 'If you're so curious, read it yourself.'"
The old man chuckled. "A good brother, are you?"
"Absolutely," Veyn said with mock sincerity.
"Alright then. Just remember to return it next time."
"Will do," he called back as he vanished into the maze of bookshelves.