Shorthand

by Monica Louzon

I crack the ancient geography book open, and the pages whir ominously in my hands as they fall open to reveal the glowing pearl. Before I can pluck it, I realize I’m not alone when someone coughs nearby. Shit. So much for keeping this pearl. I gently shut the book. Maybe if I leave it alone and put the geography book with the others scheduled for deaccession on my cart, he won’t notice.

Bookpearls are physical manifestations of humanity’s most original, profound topics, and they’re appraised and valued accordingly. Sometimes they’re found in first editions of treasured classics, but sometimes they’re hidden in obscure limited print run editions because of the ingenuity that went into the design of the physical book. Much to the chagrin of collectors with large digital libraries, the physical nature of a bookpearl means they can’t be spawned in born-digital editions.

Bookpearls are also incredibly dangerous to harvest. A book will do anything to protect its treasure from greedy hands. Anything. Including murder. Books don’t trust the general public, much less the average library customer. Would-be pearlhunters have to go to library school to learn the techniques for not only proper librarianship but also for capturing bookpearls, minimizing collateral damage, and rendering emergency first aid for life-threatening wounds.

I glance down at my badge timer. Five minutes left in my shift. If I make it to the back room with the book, I could harvest its pearl there. Of course, that depends on whether he heard the telltale sound of pages trying to protect their treasure.

I place the book on my cart with the others scheduled for deaccession and turn, feigning surprise. “Oh! Mlis Sato! What are you doing here?”

The waiting librarian extends his hand. Yesterday, the wealthy bastard earned his Master’s of Library and Information Science, and with it the title ‘Mlis’. He’s now legally allowed to harvest bookpearls, and I can’t. As a library assistant, I can barely afford to rent a mattress in the tenement I share with four people, all in similarly dire financial straits. Library degrees—and the pearlhunter certification that comes with them—are in demand. They’re competitive and expensive, too expensive for someone like me. Library assistantship isn’t a posh gig, but it gives me access. So what if I find a bookpearl once in a while and flip it on the Catacombs’ black market? I’m saving the proceeds so I can someday afford the piece of paper saying I’m an official pearlhunter. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“The book, Miss McLean.” 

Curses run through my mind. This whole unnecessary bureaucracy regulating pearlhunting irks me, especially because the same degree is also required if you want to slap a barcode on a new library book. 

“Which one? I’ve weeded out a lot of books, and—”

Sato snatches it from my cart, giving me a textbook look of disapproval. “If the Master Archivist knew I’d just found you trying to harvest a bookpearl… tsk, tsk. You aren’t a real librarian, Miss McLean. It’s illegal for you to pearlhunt.”

I falter. “Please, Mlis Sato. I need this job.”

“Could have fooled me.” The new bookpearl stud on his ear catches the light, glimmering. A graduation gift from his parents, not a prize he earned. Seeing him flaunt it makes me fume. It took years for me to scrounge enough to afford one set of dust-repellent work clothes. Meanwhile, his parents drop millions of credits on a graduation gift large enough to fund a second MLIS degree. 

Sato pries the book open. 

The pages slice at his fingers, but he deftly pins one half of the book flat against his side under his upper arm—leaving the sharp page tips on that side unable to do more than tremble—and grips the other half with the same hand so the other flailing page corners can’t deliver a single paper cut. His free hand darts in and plucks an opalescent pearl the size of my pinky nail from the book’s spine. 

When he releases the book, it falls to the floor, pages limp.

I deflate. Library school applications close at the end of the month, and I still don’t have enough money to satisfy the requisite proof of funds. I need a letter of recommendation, too, but the money is my biggest problem. The commission from selling such a large bookpearl would have covered the rest of library school tuition and all my bills for the next two years. 

I force myself to speak, feeling hollow. “Exemplary technique, Mlis Sato.”

“And that, Miss McLean, is why pearlhunters have to be certified.” As if I didn’t already know why library school tuition was so high. He pockets the pearl, then replaces the fallen book on my cart. “I’ll be watching you.”

Watching for opportunities to steal my next bookpearl, no doubt. My find saved him weeks, if not months, of his own research—even if he used the extra databases available only to true librarians. He’ll receive a nice finder’s fee from the library for it, too. 

“Oh, I almost forgot—the Master Archivist wants to see you.”

My stomach drops. “Thanks, I’ll head up there now.”

---

I leave my cart by the elevator, mind churning. The geography section is camera-free—no one wants to steal outdated geography textbooks, even though the Master Archivist adores them. 

I knock on the glass door to the Master Archivist’s office. Inside, the elderly woman talks with a girl in flowing silk skirts. Another wealthy student. The girl’s glittering jewelry screams of inherited wealth. Behind them, along the window, stands the display case of every bookpearl my supervisor has ever reported finding. Reported pearls are traceable, so a smash-and-grab has never been in the cards for me. 

“Come in!”

“Mlis Sato said you wanted to see me?”

“I’m so glad he found you, Holly.” The Master Archivist’s warm smile etches laugh lines through the paper cuts scarring her face. “Meet Miss Linnea Waverly. She’s our new intern, and she’s making a career change.”

“I’m an apprentice beautician,” the girl says, “I’m working in a salon part-time, but I can’t handle how catty everyone is. I love books, so this job will be a perfect fit!”

I can’t help slipping in a catty remark of my own. “Not everyone’s cut out to be a librarian, but it’s nice to meet you. I’m Holly McLean.”

My boss leans forward, beaming. “Miss McLean won the past two Shelving Championships! Quite the accomplishment.”

It isn’t, but I don’t correct her. I have a knack for memorizing cataloging systems and floor plans. “I just have good spatial memory, ma’am.”

“Holly, I want you to mentor Miss Waverly.”

How will I ever harvest another bookpearl before the deadline for library school applications if I’ve got a shadow? “Me, mentor? Isn’t that something only real librarians do?”

“You’ve been here longer than any of the librarians, dear, and your work ethic is unparalleled. I know you’ll set a good example for Miss Waverly, starting tomorrow. Please have her working on the pull list by the end of the week.”

“Yes, ma’am.” What else can I say? I still need the Master Archivist to write me a letter of recommendation at some point.

“Good. I’ll have security pair your badge with Miss Waverly’s so she can find you in the morning.”

The new girl waves, gold bangles jangling. “See you tomorrow, Miss McLean!”

---

When my shift starts the next day, I have two hours before the intern is due to appear. This is my last chance to find another bookpearl before library school applications close. Gambling, there’s another one in the library’s long-neglected shorthand section—which conveniently also lacks camera coverage—I tell the circulation desk I’ll be shelf-reading there. Putting books in order by catalog number is tedious, thankless work, even though books always like being shelved in an orderly manner, so I take a cart of books to reshelve with me, too. According to the logs, no one has shelf-read there in over a decade, and the room has just one exit, so I should hear if someone enters. Book attacks while shelf-reading are exceedingly rare: books can sense your intent when you lift them off the shelf to put them in their rightful place, just as they can sense the hunger in a pearlhunter’s soul. 

If Miss Waverly was more like me, maybe I could cut a deal with her. Split the profits in exchange for her research assistance. Instead, she’s from money, like Sato—she won’t understand what it’s like to struggle to get by, how I don’t even have enough credit to take out a loan for library school. She won’t understand how someone could be so poor they have to break rules just to ask permission to even play by them. 

After spending an hour shelf-reading, a shorthand guide finally snags my finger. 

I slide the blue buckram-covered book from the shelf, and—in a single move I’ve practiced for years with normal books at home—I open it, pinning its pages beneath each of my knees on the floor. Perhaps it’s not the best technique for spine preservation, but this way there’s no risk of paper cuts when I open the book. The pearl is nestled at the heart of the book, almost like it’s trying to dig its way through the pages to the binding. 

Triumphant, I lift my thumbnail-sized prize and slide it into a secret pocket I’ve sewn into the hem of my pants last night. I close and brush off the book. As I re-shelve it, my hand brushes against its red-backed neighbor, which emits the signature whir of an overprotective manuscript. 

No librarian has ever reported finding two bookpearls side-by-side. 

I’ll be the first, even if I can’t officially tell anyone. 

If I can sell two pearls in the Catacombs tonight, I’ll be able to afford a private room for my entire time at library school—something I’ve never even dreamed about until now.

I pull the red book off the shelf. Its pages flip so quickly they roar. 

The book bucks free of my hand. 

“Shit!”

I try to catch it, screaming as hundreds of razor-sharp pages slice through my long sleeves. Blood wells up immediately, dripping down my arms, following the book to the floor. 

It slides toward the shadows under the shelf, but before it can safely conceal itself, however, a polished leather shoe pins it. 

“A falling book has no cover,” Sato says, amused. “But you’d know that, if you were a real librarian.”

“Fuck you, Sato.”

“It’s Mlis Sato to you, Mlis McLean.” 

My jaw drops, and I flush. Did he mis-title me? It’s an inadvertent compliment—and a forbidden one. It’s illegal to address someone who hasn’t earned a library degree as ‘Mlis’ — another consequence of nitpicking bureaucracy. I savor his misstep for a moment, because it means, subconsciously, despite all his bullying, Sato already thinks of me as a true librarian.

“Gonna take my bookpearl again, Sato?” I taunt. “Real pearlhunters are supposed to do their own research. Didn’t they teach you that in library school?”

Sato ignores me and takes off his belt, then wraps it around the trapped book, which growls but doesn’t struggle. 

“I can’t wait to show the Master Archivist this.” He brandishes the red book.

“Wait! Sato, you can’t! You’re already on thin ice with her!”

He glares at me, but stays put. “Thin ice? What do you mean?”

“I heard some of the other librarians talking in the refresher. The Master Archivist knows you stole that pearl from me, Sato.” My heart thunders in my ears. It’s not a lie, not exactly. Librarians gossip in the refresher just like anyone else. Sato doesn’t need to know that the Master Archivist came to me directly. This is his last chance to make the right choice. 

His face twists. “You’ll say anything to get out of trouble, won’t you? Real pearlhunters aren’t from the gutter,” he spits, then brandishes the captive volume. “Let’s go, Mlis McLean.”

I let my shoulders slump, and Sato spins on his heel, victorious. 

As he triumphantly strides away, I can’t keep my wicked grin hidden any longer.

---

I follow Sato back into the library, trying not to drip blood on the books we pass. 

My supervisor is by the reference desk, talking to my mentee, who spots me and gasps. The administrator shouts for the first aid kit, and a circulation clerk comes running. Miss Waverly helps me tend my wounds—thankfully, none deep enough to require stitches—as Sato hands the Master Archivist the bound book. 

“Mlis McLean has violated the terms of employment and must be fired immediately,” Sato declares.

The old woman glances at me. “Mlis McLean, you say?”

Sato blanches. “I misspoke.”

The Master Archivist sighs. “You’ve shown your true colors, Mlis Sato. I’d been wondering how you found a bookpearl so soon after graduating from library school. I’d hoped the rumors of your intolerance were far-fetched, but when Miss McLean confirmed that you’d stolen her bookpearl and claimed it as her own… I’ll be filing a letter of censure with the Librarians’ Guild regarding your unprofessional behavior. You’re fired, Mlis Sato.”

“But she’s not a certified pearlhunter!” Sato protests. “You should fire her instead!”

“When I caught Mlis McLean pearlhunting without authorization last year, she and I came to an agreement. She could continue working in my library only if she agreed to use her pearlhunting skills for good: ferreting out unethical librarians.”

“But that’s illegal!” 

“Not if she has a certified dispensation from the Librarian’s Guild.”

“Which I have,” I chime in, tapping my badge until it glows with the Guild’s emblem. “If you’d been just a little more curious about my pearlhunting, I would have shown it to you, but you couldn’t get past your own ego.”

Sato slumps down into the chair closest to him. “My family—”

“—won’t be able to strike an official letter of censure from your record,” the Master archivist says. “Now, please, go.”

“But this is entrapment!”

“The Librarian’s Guild didn’t think so. Now, go, Mlis Sato.”

He slams the door shut behind him, and Miss Waverly giggles. The Master Archivist turns to Miss Waverly and me. “You’ve done your job well, Miss McLean.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“You’ll have your letter of recommendation added to your file before the end of the week. You’ll make a great librarian, Miss McLean.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” I’m in shock, lightheaded, and giddy. 

“Miss Waverly, remember today when you become a librarian. Treat everyone equally, and with kindness. You never know when a book will slice the hand that squeezes it too tightly.”

Wide-eyed, the new girl nods.

“You’re dismissed, the both of you.” 

I’m practically dancing on clouds as I follow Miss Waverly out the door.

“Holly?” The Master Archivist stops me dead in my tracks.

I turn, slowly. “Ma’am?”

The woman’s face is serious, sobering me instantly. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“I won’t, Ma’am. I promise.” 

How could I know what the future would bring? I’m a pearlhunter, not an oracle.