I will admit, when Rodrick barged into the library like a spooked ox, wild-eyed and gasping out the words "The man in white is missing", I didn't exactly leap out of my chair with poise and grace.
No, I half-choked on my own breath, sputtered something unprintable, and bolted for the door before Fitch could even finish raising a smug eyebrow. There are moments in life when clever remarks lose to the baser instinct of run now, quip later, and this was one of them.
The library's air — that calm, hushed cathedral of ink and dust — was instantly behind me as I burst out into the courtyard, the cool slap of morning fog hitting my face.
Survivors and attendants were still scattered from the chaos of Fitch's earlier performance, whispers rising like moths in the mist. My boots echoed too loudly on the cobblestones, and for once I didn't even care that I looked like a lunatic racing without direction.
