The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(17) Backups For Backup Plans

Exie and I sit together in the library, saying nothing, for the better part of half an hour after that. I want to break the silence, but I don't know what to say. I've never been good at comforting people. My parents named me wretchedness for a reason.

Eventually, Exie un-hugs her knees and picks up her book again. I don't think she's actually reading it, but she puts on a good act, and I find myself looking around once again for anything to do. I feel even worse not helping with the project now. Exie might be one of those psychos who genuinely enjoys schoolwork, but I hate feeling like a parasite. It's my own pride, really. Nothing to do with Exie or the project. Though I have gained a modicum of interest in the Santa Clarissa Cathedral since yesterday's class on the Sectant Witch Trials.

Exie was uncannily exact in her identification of my hatred for writing, but I would submit to reading something if I knew it would be interesting. I also can't draw. Not well enough that I'd show people, anyway, an attitude I hold in kind across nearly all the arts. And Exie's already scoured this library for maps. That rules out all of her suggested contributions, so I run through them again, with exactly the same results.

"Is there anything in particular that I can help with?" I say.

Exie sorts a book from the leaning tower of literature beside her and scoots it across to me. She doesn't introduce it, so I flip it open and am met by a graphic woodcut of a witch bonfire. I can't stop a smile from laying siege to my mouth-corners. I'll never turn down a tale of church-folk attempting to submit the devil to death by barbeque. Half the stories I know involve witches calling calamity down on their oppressors, and while Church propaganda dictates that the Church triumphs in the end, I always stop reading before I reach that part.

I turn the first page, then pause. "This isn't for the project, is it?"

Exie shrugs. "It's a prevailing sentiment of the day and age, which we're supposed to research. I have suspicions about parts of Santa Clarissa's architecture that might have been impacted by it. But I'm sure nobody will complain if it serves another purpose."

A smile teases her lips, too, but she maintains outward serenity for the benefit of anyone listening in. I have to appreciate just how shrewd a choice the Santa Clarissa Cathedral was for this project. Exie has us studying the origin-context of the Melliford angel cult without ever naming it out loud, and the two buildings are just far enough apart to circumvent suspicions. Off the top of my head, I can't name another structure in southern Englemark whose architecture provides a plausible excuse to read up on witch trials.

"Tell me anything interesting you find," says Exie, and goes back to her book.

"Have you screened this one already?"

"No. I'm not a fan of burning people."

"So you're offloading those stories onto me?"

"Tell me you don't enjoy them."

That gets a guilty grin out of me. I feel seen.

"Watch out for anything local," says Exie. "Or anything particularly condemned by the House of Heymair. I'm still betting they're the ones who changed the maps."

I delve into the book without need of further prompting. It's larger than the Miranda Bible, giving its typeface room to breathe on a pleasantly creamy background. Little medieval designs painted in the corners carry on the tradition of an earlier era. I'll never not get a giggle out of butt trumpets.

It's not until the sun begins to set that I surface and find Exie looking around, fidgeting with her shirt hem in a manner that's definitely not relaxed. I offer her a questioning look that she doesn't see, then stretch myself across the carpet to wave for her attention like a defective sea cucumber. She startles when she spots me.