After the End(72)

And it clicks. “The library!” I say. “The library’s the place I always dreamed of as a child.”

“A library?” He looks astonished. “Out of everywhere in the world you could pick as a child, you wanted to go to a library.”

“Where would you have picked?” I ask defensively.

“Disneyland,” he admits.

I laugh. “Miles, in my childhood Disneyland wasn’t an option. We had a hundred and thirty books in our clan. I know, because I read every single one of them at least five times. I practically memorized Moby-Dick. Reading was the only way I was allowed to escape. And I wanted more. In the EB, I mean in our encyclopedia, there was this illustration of the domed reading room at the British Library, with books going up the walls so high that they had ladders to reach them. That was the place I dreamed of going.”

“We’re going to the British Library?” Miles looks worried.

“No. Oracle-you brought us to Salt Lake City, not to London,” I remind him. “Whatever sign we’re looking for or Reading I’m supposed to do, it’s got to be in the Salt Lake City Library.”

“You haven’t seen the public library,” Miles grumbles. “It’s huge. We could spend weeks looking through all the books and find nothing.”

We pull up to a massive glass-paned building in the center of town. “See,” says Miles. “How are we going to find anything in that . . . monument if we don’t even know what we’re looking for?”

“Well, hopefully we’ll get a nudge from the Yara,” I reply. “Otherwise, we could be looking around for a long time.”

We walk into a huge atrium lined with shops and trees and topped with glass several stories up. Sunlight is streaming down, illuminating the entire interior of the building. Miles and I stand there gaping at the enormous, brightly lit foyer.

“Let’s sit down,” I suggest.

“Um, all right,” he says, looking overwhelmed.

We walk over to a table under a potted tree, and the heat from the glass-filtered sun toasts my back as I take in the layout of the building. There are five floors, and it looks like the middle three hold most of the books. Winding staircases take people from one floor to the next. I look through the transparent walls of the ground floor toward the outside and see two big lake-like basins of water hugging the curve of the building.

“That’s where we need to start,” I say, pointing to the water. Standing, I lead Miles through another doorway and into the building’s courtyard.

The water ripples green, reflecting the glass and concrete of the building. “What are you going to do?” Miles asks with the slightest hint of discomfort.

“I’m going to Read the water,” I answer. “It’s kind of like when I Read fire—I can get images from it, and it’s good for finding hidden things.”

Miles nods. “I’m just going to take your word for it.”

I reach automatically for my opal and then remember that I don’t need it. I loop the necklace over my head and hand it to Miles. “Could you hold this for me?” I ask.

“Anything to feel helpful,” he says, and tucks it into his back pocket.

The simple fact of separating myself from the opal has made me feel strong. It’s lit a flame of confidence in me, and I know without a doubt that I will be able to do this. I reach for the Yara, and my mind connects with it almost instantly, stunning me with its force.

I breathe out and focus on the surface of the water . . . on the reflection of the floors and floors of books, and my attention is caught by a flash of orange. I stare directly at it, and as I do, it is as if a magnifying glass is being held above the water, and the orange grows and becomes a book in a bookcase, its thick spine shining like a beacon in the glistening water.

Without breaking my gaze, I lean down and feel around at my feet until I’m grasping a small, flat stone. Turning slightly to the side, I flick my wrist and skip the stone across the surface of the water. “One, two,” I count, and the stone veers off to the left before plunging into the depths of the basin.

I turn to Miles, who is watching me expectantly. “Three skips,” I say. “It’s on the third floor, left-hand side. A big book with an orange spine. Let’s go!”

Miles looks bemused but says, “You’re the boss!”

Taking his hand, I dash into the library entry. We sprint up two flights of stairs, and head down the corridor toward the shelves on the left. “Don’t run,” an elderly man chastises as I speed past, and I slow to a fast walk.

“It’s probably near the window,” I say, and lead him toward the glass wall. We begin going up and down the aisles, and then there it is, near the window reflected in the water three floors below.