The Vatican had taken all of the texts from the libraries in the tower, after it had ended: understandable, if disheartening, and it isn't as if Lavi hadn't heard of this kind of thing happening before. Where a benefactor had turned a blind eye as long as it suited, but reneged on the policy of leniency as soon as the threat was gone. Lavi had managed to salvage a few things, as many as he could carry, but the rest had been tucked away in the secret archives (a concept Lavi finds insulting) and even his credentials as the last of the Bookmen hadn't gotten him past the sour dwarf in the office where he had gone to plead his case.

("I was under the impression," the little man had said, pushing his spectacles up his nose with one finger, "that your quaint little guild had been dissolved.")

Another exhalation from the bed behind him, and Lavi hunts around in the drawers of his desk for a clean scrap of paper to write Allen a reply. It starts to rain outside.

What had happened was the dwarf at the Vatican had insinuated that Lavi had stolen texts, which was true, but not to the extent implied. Lavi had been convinced the Vatican had them right up until the moment he had arrived there and seen the suspicion in their eyes. So he returned to London and began going through the ones he had salvaged, useless though they were, with the vague idea that the missing books might somehow show up. They didn't, of course, but Kanda did, and now this letter from Allen, and Lavi has a slew of new things to think about.

Allen Walker,

he writes, and pauses. What the hell have you been doing?

Lavi remembers the inkblot and the way Allen's hands used to shake when he was around Kanda, and makes a decision.

It was good to hear from you again. I would love to come down and see the books. As for your postscript, I hope you don't mind providing for another person.