The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 18

Maeve didn’t know where she was, only that everything hurt. She moved her arms and legs, taking a quick survey of her bones, but nothing felt broken. Cracking her eyes open, she stretched her neck until her temple throbbed. Her braid had come undone, her hair tumbling around her like mattress fluff. A violent shiver rolled through her, and she felt for her cloak, but it was missing. Where was she?

Her muscles barked in protest as she sat herself up against a worn leather settee and looked around her.

A long wall that seemed to be comprised of poorly stacked books sprawled out before her. Beside it, a piano was strewn with empty wine bottles encased in melted wax. Fringed scarves and polished shoes and towers of unopened boxes lay scattered about the floor in a mess that only one person could have made.

A door creaked open.

Tristan pushed his head through, balancing a tea service on one hand. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and looked her over, and she felt herself turning pink.

“It seems the impostor is finally awake.”

His spectacles were crooked, and a smudge of something gray streaked across his cheek. He was filthy, but at the sight of him, a bright feeling of relief struck Maeve between her ribs.

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re smiling.”

She flattened her mouth. “And you’re covered in cobwebs.”

“From when I extracted you from that ruin of a building then carried you across the grounds like a sack of lifeless mail three hours ago. It’s the middle of the night.”

“You carried me all the way here?”

“Aside from calling for help, there was no other option.” He came closer. “The rain managed to wash much of your dirt away. Though I’m afraid the day has finally come to light your cloak on fire and toss it over the nearest cliff.”

He gestured toward the puddle of fabric by the door.

“Don’t you dare touch it,” Maeve said as everything came back to her: the trip to Barrow, her father’s roommate—the old friend .

She needed to find him.

Bracing her hands, she tried to push herself up, but it was too fast, and her head felt like it wasn’t screwed on properly. A wave of dizziness rushed over her, and she fell against the cushions, shivering. Her teeth chattered together painfully.

“Don’t move.” Tristan placed the tea service on the table in front of her, then fished through a nearby dresser, tossing out gloves by the handful. He returned with a cream-colored wool blanket and tucked it around her shoulders. It smelled like pounce powder and old books and days spent inside sipping tea. She took a deep inhale then buried her face in the wool, hoping to disappear into it and wake up five years from now. But then the settee compressed beside her, and the scent of fresh Earl Grey had her mouth watering; she was horribly thirsty.

She opened her eyes to a tendril of steam weaving its way around Tristan’s spectacles and through his damp hair. He offered her a chipped cup.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it from him. Their fingers brushed.

It was the slightest touch, but her breath caught. She looked up to find Tristan watching her intently. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she glanced down, focusing all her attention on her teacup.

Why did he have to sit so close? At least the cup was hot. Warmth seeped into her frozen palms, and she stopped shivering.

“Nan told me everything,” Tristan said suddenly.

Oh, dear god.

“Don’t look too frightened. She made me swear upon my future offspring that I wouldn’t yell at you.”

Maeve’s fingers tightened against the porcelain. “What did she say exactly?”

He shifted. “That she wanted to see Jonathan Abenthy’s room and dragged you there.”

Nan took the blame for it? Maeve couldn’t believe someone would do that for her. She would have to thank Nan later. Profusely.

“I’ve decided to not say anything about it as long as neither of you ever do it again,” Tristan said, then brought his arms over his head, stretching. His shirt came untucked, a sliver of taut skin poking from the top of his waistband.

Maeve forced her eyes to her cup for the second time in a matter of minutes.

“So?” he asked, oblivious to his untucked shirt. “Find anything to make that fall worthwhile?”

His words made her pause. She needed information about the roommate, but didn’t want Tristan suspecting anything. But she had to say something, and she could use that to her advantage. Though if she worded things wrong or pushed him too hard, it would make him wonder about her motives, and why she was suddenly so interested in Jonathan Abenthy.

“We discovered that Abenthy had a roommate,” she said cautiously.

His brow furrowed. “I always thought that Abenthy lived alone.”

“Is there any way to find out who it might be?” Maeve asked, then added, “Nan is very curious.”

“Official room records are kept inside the Second Library. Nan can search through them once she gets her courier key.”

“But what if you helped her look the roommate up?”

“I’m not about to help anyone dig up information on Abenthy.”

Tristan sounded annoyed by the idea.

Maeve didn’t press him. Her palms were already slick from uttering her father’s name out loud. She rubbed the throbbing spot on her head, trying to think of something else to say.

Tristan, however, spoke before she could. “Nan mentioned something else that needs to be discussed.”

Maeve’s heart thumped at his grim tone. “What is it?”

“She said that she told you a few things about Cathriona, but wouldn’t tell me what was said. And now I’m curious.”

Maeve pictured boiling blood and grimaced.

“So she did tell you something.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “What was it this time? By the look on your face, it must have been the tale of how I slit Cath’s throat with a quill knife. Or the one where I strung Cath to a worktable and forced poison down her throat with a clinician’s medicinal tube.”

Maeve’s eyes went wide. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Then what was it?” he asked. “Nothing you can say will offend me. I’ve heard all the stories. Many times over, in fact.”

“It was about a scribing,” Maeve said, hoping that would be enough.

“And…?”

“A scribing that boiled Cathriona’s blood.”

Tristan blanched. “I’ve got to hand it to Nan, at least that one’s creative.”

It wasn’t true at all? Maeve’s stomach sickened like it used to at the orphanage, when those horrible girls would gossip about her, because a large part of her had believed Nan—without a single speck of proof. Without confirming the story with Tristan first.

“Then will you tell me what happened?” Maeve asked. She wanted to hear the truth, and everyone deserved the chance to tell their own story.

He poured himself a cup of tea, then held it between his palms, rolling it. Liquid sloshed nearly to the edge. “Nan was right in that it concerned scriptomancy.” His throat bobbed. “I used to love scribing so fiercely that I’d spend hours at it, but—but then I gave Cath pigment that was mixed too strongly for what she needed, and I didn’t pay attention to which scribing she was attempting because I was too busy reading a scutting novel. I was careless, and too skilled at scribing. A lethal combination. Cath’s scribing didn’t boil her blood, but it killed her nonetheless.”

The story made other things she knew about Tristan click into place. “That’s why you won’t help me scribe. You’re afraid someone else will get hurt.”

“Someone will.”

“You think you’re dangerous?”

His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I don’t think anything. I know exactly what I am.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed. Cathriona was the reason he’d looked wretched that day in his father’s office, when he was assigned to mentor her. Heavens, the idea of teaching her anything must have horrified him.

What happened to Cathriona was an accident, and yet Tristan clearly blamed himself for everything, which wasn’t fair. But he didn’t hate scriptomancy. He’d just admitted that he loved scribing once. He was obviously gifted at it. A prodigy who now tormented himself for a mistake that wasn’t his fault. Who held himself back from something that brought him joy.

“What if you started scribing again slowly, doing some of the things the apprentices are tasked with?”

He raised an eyebrow. “While helping you?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Shocking, I realize, but I’ve learned my lesson and this doesn’t have anything to do with teaching me.” The small writing desk beside the door looked stocked with several inks. “You could practice scribing here, away from the prying eyes in the Scriptorium.”

“I see what you’re doing,” Tristan said. “It’s disgustingly noble of you, but I’m not scribing outside of deliveries. I can barely bring myself to write anymore as it is. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You start with a blank page and a single word,” Maeve rattled off, then grew flustered when Tristan’s gaze fixed on her. “My father used to tell me that whenever he gave me a new journal and I wasn’t sure what I should write about.”

“You mean, you don’t fill all your journals with devious plots for sneaking into government facilities?”

She rolled her eyes and looked down at her lap, picturing her finger smoothing along the center of her journal. “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m writing until I’m halfway down a page and the idea takes hold and won’t let go. And in those moments, I feel like I can write forever. I know that scribing pulls in actual magic, but I think there’s nothing more magical than filling a page with writing. It might be something you could try. To get used to writing things besides deliveries. To find joy in it again.”

Maeve glanced up to find Tristan watching her intently. Heat rushed to her cheeks.

“Who are you really?” he asked.

“Please, not this again.”

“What if you only told me your first name? I’d like to call you something other than an impostor.” He leaned toward her. “I’d like for you to trust me with it.”

Trusting him with her name was impossible, and yet Maeve let herself imagine what it might feel like to speak it aloud.

What was she thinking? If she said her name aloud, it would belong to Tristan Byrne, a scriptomancer who could track her down no matter where in the worlds she went.

A scriptomancer who waited patiently for her answer.

“I told you already; I’m nobody interesting.”

“I think it’s the opposite,” he said. “I think you’re somebody very interesting who has a lot to lose by revealing yourself to others. Most of all, I think you’re scared of who you are.”

“None of that is remotely true,” Maeve said, but her voice came out much too high. Nerves flooded her, and she tucked her legs to her body so tightly that her calf twisted painfully. Shrieking, she pinched the muscle with her thumb, rubbing it lengthwise until it loosened. “It’s just a leg cramp—probably from the cold,” she said, then looked toward the door. She should make an escape before she made a bigger fool of herself.

Tristan took her heel.

“What are you doing?” She tried pulling her foot away.

He ignored her and tugged off her left shoe, then slid down her wet stocking, jerking it off as well. He did the same with the other foot, then dug through a trunk beside him and pulled out a pair of mismatched woolen socks, one the color of dried oatmeal, the other a deep burgundy. He put them on her, sliding them over her calves, to just below her knees. She sat frozen for the entire affair.

“Your skirt is wet as well.” He fingered the hem.

“Don’t you dare .”

He laughed, his hands loosely clasped around her ankles. His fingers flexed. The small circles of pressure from his fingertips felt like embers catching on her skin. He sat close enough that it would be easy to lean over and kiss him. She imagined it for the briefest moment, then immediately banished the ridiculous notion, shifting away.

His hand brushed along her thigh.

They both stilled.

Her heart seemed to beat outside her body.

“You should probably get to your room,” Tristan said, rather roughly.

Yes—yes, she should.

She slid her feet free, then stood on the warm socks and wiggled her toes. She considered removing the socks, but her feet were still cold. And even though the colors didn’t match, they were nicer than all her socks, and he certainly didn’t need another item of clothing. It would probably be best if she hung on to them for the time being.

She padded to the door slowly, taking in his room—such a small, ordinary slice of Tristan’s life—then bent and gathered the damp puddle of her cloak. It wasn’t ruined at all—only needed a good scrubbing. She balled it in her arms and halted at the writing desk beside his door. It was covered in uncarved quills and several expensive-looking bottles of ink. Too many for someone who barely wrote, but considering Tristan’s shopping habits, it didn’t surprise her. Maeve lifted a bottle in the center, then nearly dropped it.

The ink gleamed the exact fiery red as the threatening letters.

The black wax covering the stopper wasn’t cracked, which meant the ink was unopened—never used, thank heavens. The elaborate gilt-foiled label was from Plume & Pen Inksmithy in Barrow, the color called Oxblood.

“I picked that up after deliveries yesterday,” Tristan called out. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

It was indeed.