The villagers poured through the broken door like a flood. The miller reached Elena first, shoving her away from Anna so hard she crashed into a bookshelf. Volumes tumbled down around her—*Principles of Botany*, *Flora of the Northern Regions*, *A Mother's Guide to Common Ailments*.
"GET AWAY FROM HER!" The miller's wife swept Anna into her arms, the child limp as a rag doll. The cup of half-steeped herbs fell from the table, amber liquid spreading across the floor.
"No—wait—she needs to drink that—" Elena struggled to her feet.
The blacksmith's hammer swung up between them. "Stay back, daemon."
Elena's eyes were wild, red-rimmed. "She's dying. Do you understand? The mushrooms are destroying her liver. She needs—"
"She needs to be away from YOU!" The miller's wife was backing toward the door, Anna cradled against her chest. "Away from your books, your potions, your—"
Anna's eyes fluttered open. Unfocused. Glazed.
"Mama?" she whispered.
"Yes, baby, yes, Mama's here—"
"The pretty... purple picture..." Anna's voice was barely audible. "I saw them... in the forest... they looked the same..."
A terrible silence fell.
"She's confused," Marta said quickly. "The curse has confused her. Made her think—"
"They *were* the same," Elena said, her voice hoarse. "That's what I was trying to tell you. The mushrooms in that book—Amanita phalloides, death caps—they're the same ones growing by the forest edge. Where the children play. I tried to warn you. I tried to—"
"LIES!" Gregor stepped forward, his iron nail clutched so tight his knuckles were white. "More lies to cover your working! You planted those mushrooms! You made that book! You orchestrated all of this!"
"The book was printed in 1847," Elena said desperately. "In a city three hundred miles from here. By a publishing house that doesn't even exist anymore. I didn't—I *can't*—"
"She can make books," Jakob said, voice shaking. "Everyone knows she can make books. They multiply in here. We've all seen the library grow—"
"The library grew because I BUILT A SECOND ROOM!" Elena screamed. "With my own hands! With lumber from Petro's mill! You sold me the wood yourself, Petro! You remember—you have to remember—"
Petro's face was pale. "I... I remember selling wood. But that was years ago. Decades. You haven't aged since then. How do you explain that?"
"I'm FORTY-THREE YEARS OLD!" Elena's voice cracked. "I've aged! I just—I keep my hair neat, I wash my face, I—"
She caught sight of herself in the library's small mirror. Haggard. Exhausted. Lines around her eyes that hadn't been there ten years ago. Grey in her hair she kept meaning to accept.
But they didn't see that. They saw what they expected to see.
In her mother's arms, Anna convulsed once. Twice.
Then went still.
"Anna?" The miller's wife shook her daughter gently. "Anna, sweetheart?"
"She's breathing," the blacksmith said, checking. "But barely."
The miller's wife looked up at Elena with pure hatred. "What did you DO?"
Elena's voice came out broken. "Nothing. I did nothing. I tried to help and you wouldn't let me. I tried to warn you and you wouldn't listen. I tried to—"
She couldn't finish.
"We're taking her to Old Mother Yana," Gregor announced. "She knows the old ways. The real healing. Not this... not this book-magic."
"Old Mother Yana is half-blind and treats everything with cabbage poultices!" Elena lurched forward. The blacksmith's hammer stopped her. "Please. Please, just let me—the medical text says—"
"We've heard enough about what your books say," the miller said coldly. "We're leaving. And you're going to stay here, in your library, where you belong."
"If Anna dies—" Elena's voice was barely a whisper.
"If Anna dies," the miller's wife said, tears streaming down her face, "we'll know exactly who to blame."
They carried the child out, the whole village following, leaving Elena alone among her scattered books and spilled herbs.
She stood there, trembling, surrounded by all the knowledge in the world.
All the useless, useless knowledge.