“I wasn’t finished!” I wrenched away from him, wheeling on the library.
It was still there, shaking, shuddering. But the crack didn’t open any wider. The screaming stopped.
“We can still save it,” I told the wolf.
He growled. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m not giving the library up. Go to the spider room. Gather all the binding thread you can.” It was strange giving him orders, but he just dipped his head mutely and went off down the hall.
I brushed my hand around the door frame, willing the library to grow still. “By the old magic,” I said softly, “I command you to stay.”
And somehow the room quieted. Somehow, the shaking ceased.
The wolf was back the next moment, hauling a basket full of thread in his teeth. I grabbed it and hopped down into the library before he could protest.
I glanced back. “Aren’t you going to help?”
He grunted but leapt down as well, careful to avoid the crack in the floor.
“We can fix this,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. I tried not to look at all the book-mirrors, tried not to register the fact that most of them—if not all—were clearly broken beyond repair.
I knelt beside the crack and pushed the needle into the floor. It went in easily, the thread sighing and singing. Without any warning, I leapt across to the other side, skidding to a stop in a shower of broken glass. The wolf giving a sharp bark of alarm.
“I’m fine,” I assured him.
He stayed where he was, glowering at me.
I ignored him and pushed the needle into the floor on that side, preparing to leap back across.
“Throw me the needle, Echo,” said the wolf drily. “I will make the stitches over here.”
That certainly sounded less exhausting than leaping across the crack over and over all the way down the room. I threw it to him.
It took hours to mend the library, hundreds of stitches on either side of the crack. When we’d finished stitching, I joined the wolf on his side, and we seized the thread together and pulled the seam shut, the whole house groaning and grinding beneath us. After that, I made more binding stitches around the door frame, and we pulled the room up to its proper level again.
There was nothing to be done about the book-mirrors.
“The house may be able to fix them,” the wolf told me, following my mournful glance.
I didn’t believe him, but I hoped he was right. I fought the urge to dig among the slivers of glass, piece together a book-mirror, and step through to see if Hal was all right.
The air in the hallway turned suddenly icy; the lamp grew a tail and floated down from the wall—it was nearly midnight.
“Come, Echo. We’ve done all we can.”
The wolf caught my eye, and I sagged against him. “Thank you for helping me.”
He cocked his head. “I would never have left you to do it alone.”
We paced down the corridor as we had done that first night, my hand wound in the scruff of his fur, the wolf pressed up warm against my knee.
I dreamed that Hal shattered to pieces like the book-mirrors, and spun away into the darkness where I could never reach him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN THE MORNING, IWENT STRAIGHTto the library. To my staggering relief, it was still there. I sewed six binding stitches around the door frame, just to be sure, and then stepped inside.
The crack in the floor was barely visible, reduced to a shimmering, silver scar. The chandeliers had re-strung themselves.
