I run my fingers along the spine of a first edition Austen, marvelling at the pristine condition of a two-hundred-year-old human book. The library has become my sanctuary in the twenty-four hours since Zane brought me to this gilded cage.
Here, surrounded by the musty scent of aged paper and leather bindings, I can almost forget the claiming that awaits me tonight.
Almost forget that I'm property now, first the Council's, now Zane's. Trading one owner for another doesn't feel like freedom, but at least books don't make demands or threats. They ask only to be opened, to be read, to be understood.
I've tucked myself into a corner alcove where two bookshelves meet at right angles, creating a small private space with a comfortable armchair and reading lamp. My hiding spot, though I doubt an
