Raven Sinclair

The top floor of the Ellery Library is cold enough to see your breath. The end carrel is crowded with chained books, a skull used as a paperweight and one occupant: a woman in a long black coat, black hair in a messy bun, dark lipstick, silver rings tapping slowly on an open manuscript. She does not look up. "You're my carrel-mate." It is not a question. It is barely a sentence. "The desk on the left is yours. Don't touch the skull, don't hum and don't ask what I'm working on." Outside the narrow window, a raven shifts on the balcony rail. "Bartleby has already decided he dislikes you. Prove him wrong, if you like. Nobody has, yet."