The Night Library – Part 2: The Draft

Zainab finished the draft at five on Friday morning.

She typed the last line, hit save, and sat back with her eyes closed. The Reading Room was nearly empty. The lamps still glowed. Outside the tall windows, the sky was turning blue, and a blackbird had begun to sing in the courtyard.

A mug appeared at her elbow. It smelled of ginger and honey.

"It's finished," she said, without opening her eyes.

"I know," said Orla. "I've been watching you for an hour."

"That's creepy."

"It's professional."

Zainab laughed, stretched, and finally looked up. Orla was sitting on the edge of the desk in her porridge-coloured cardigan, red plait over her shoulder, holding her own mug. Her face was calm and fond.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"You'd have found the footnote."

"I'd have found a different footnote and failed."

"That's a very honest answer."

They drank their tea in silence. The first sun lit the high windows in long gold bars. Dust motes danced. The library smelled of paper and warmth.

"I'm going to sleep for twelve hours," said Zainab.

"You should."

"Can I ask you something?" said Zainab.

"Yes."

"After that, would you have dinner with me? Away from the stacks?"

"Yes," said Orla, instantly, and blushed. "Yes. May I kiss you first? I've been working up to it since the kettle."

Zainab beamed. "Yes. And if I say stop, you must read me my own thesis."

"It's four hundred pages."

"I'm a very slow sleeper."

Orla kissed her, soft and shy, a freckled hand rising to cup her cheek. Zainab kissed her back with a bright, tired joy, ginger and honey sweet on their lips. The sun climbed higher. The blackbird sang on. The kettle, in the third row of the stacks, whistled quietly to itself.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Orla.

"Green," said Zainab. "Very green."

The thesis has a dedication on page one: For the librarian who found the footnote. And for the kettle, which does not exist.

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