Pretending

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Hells' library was many wonderful things but organized, it was not.

At least, it wasn't organized in any way that Sabrina understood. She had tried her best to familiarize herself with the layout since becoming a permanent resident, but she'd had very little success.

It wasn't all bad, though. On days where she wasn't holding court, she could disappear between the shelves for hours. Every so often she would stumble upon a new section of books, and spend her whole day there. Something about reading the works of Shakespeare in his own handwriting was incredibly exciting.

Every alcove and isle gave her a sense of privacy and security. Most of the time, no one bothered her. Except for Caliban, who always seemed to know exactly where to find her. He knew the library like the back of his hand. It usually bothered her, but today she was grateful for it. They didn't have time to be wandering around aimlessly.

He did make a few wrong turns, but she said nothing. It wasn't as if he read about Eldritch Terrors on a regular basis. If he did, well, that would just be weird.

"Here they are," Caliban said, reaching for several leather-bound journals.

She took a look at the shelf they were on. The whole shelf was full of journals.

"Are these all Lovecraft's?" she asked.

He nodded, "His visions of the Terrors drove him mad, and he spent all of his time recounting them in his journals."

She reached for another one of the journals and turned it over in her hands, "We'd better get started. There's a lot to cover here."

"Couldn't agree more," he said, "There is a fireplace close by if you would be comfortable working there."

"Sounds good."

It wasn't the same fireplace they sat in front of while searching for the Pygmalion Spell, but it looked enough like it to stir up old memories. It had the same macabre carvings and the same plush carpets. It was tucked away in a small alcove, forcing its occupants into close proximity.

Your heart might've softened towards me by then...

She no longer felt the desire to rip him limb from limb or crush him beneath her feet just because she could. He was useful. But, not wanting to brutally murder him was not the same as professing her undying love for him. So, she supposed it was all in how he decided to measure success.

The first journal she had read, something called 'The Alchemist,' yielded nothing useful and she set it aside before reaching for the next.

"May I ask you something?"

She hummed her assent as she started to read.

"Who is Tommy Kinkle?"

"Why do you care?"

He shrugged, avoiding her gaze, "You seemed upset when he was mentioned earlier."

"Tommy Kinkle is-" she paused to correct herself, "Was Harvey's brother."

"He's passed on, then," Caliban observed, "My condolences."

"He didn't 'pass on.' He was murdered," she informed him, "I killed him."

"You're not a killer." The tone in his voice was serious. He didn't believe her.

"Harvey's ancestry is... interesting. He is descended from witch hunters. The Weird Sisters found out after his father shot a wild familiar in the woods," she explained, "Dorcas and Agatha collapsed the mine Tommy and Harvey were working in. Harvey survived, thanks to a protection spell I cast, but Tommy didn't."

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