“You’re the one who took out my books,” she said at last, the only words she could summon as her blood pulsed with adrenaline. The memory of standing in front of the circulation desk, the boy’s number in bleeding ink on the back of her hand, filled her with a jilted anger anew. “On Myrddin. I went to the library and the librarian told me they had all been checked out.” “Well, they’re not your books. That’s the entire premise of a library.”
