Chapter 21
They were ungodly tall stairs, and Maeve’s legs burned by the time she reached the top, but it was worth the climb. A window showed a perfect view of the ocean lit by moonlight. A cascade of light filtered in through the glass, illuminating the largest scriptomancy worktable she’d ever seen. She started toward it when something dark zipped by her cheek. It stopped, hovering in the air. Large black wings fluttered around a tiny body.
“Don’t touch it,” Tristan said, coming up beside her. He waved at the creature until it fluttered up to the ceiling, where more of them hovered around the rafters.
“Are they bats?”
“They’re drear moths. Their ink stains everything.”
“Ink?”
“They’re all made from form scribings that the stewards believe Molly herself wrote. My father wants to be rid of them because he worries about them ruining the books, but the stewards won’t allow crematory ash to touch them, given their historical significance.”
“But I thought all scribings wear off when the arcane magic is used up.”
“Nearly all do, but Molly’s don’t. She knew a way to write scribings that continually pull in arcane magic. So Arcane Infusion isn’t a single instance, but ongoing. It’s how the Written Doors lasted until Inverly.”
“Didn’t she leave notes about how she did it?”
“A few, which is how we know it’s possible, but they’re not concrete enough to let us recreate it. The stewards have tricks to make the magic trapped in a scribing escape slower so it can be read multiple times, but nothing like the moths.”
He riffled through his writing case and pulled out a long gadget that looked like a wand with a round glass sphere at the end that held a single mirror.
Maeve recognized it. “You brought an arcthiometer? I thought those were all junk.”
“Most are. But my father gave me this one. It has paper at its center with a scribing that should still work, but it only lasts for a few minutes.”
He flipped the arcthiometer over and pointed out a cavity with a piece of paper inside that held a tiny scribble of handwriting.
“You do the honors.” He handed her the device.
“Show me arcane magic,” Maeve read aloud from the paper.
The mirror inside the glass globe began spinning faster and faster, making a whirring sound. Then the globe began to glow like a gas lamp, but brighter. Maeve waved it through the air. The arcthiometer’s light illuminated little particles of shimmering dust motes. They moved in a current like a river around her. Tristan ran his fingers through the motes, disturbing the current as if it were water.
They were everywhere. Maeve brought the device close to her face and inhaled, breathing in a stream of motes, but tasting nothing.
“It’s arcane magic,” Tristan said. “It seems to gather in certain places and flow away from others. There’s a large amount around Blackcaster Station. The stewards think the ancient scriptomancers chose that spot to build the black stone wall because of it. There’s slightly less of the magic in this tower, but there’s still a great deal. Scribings always seem to take more easily here. I think it’s why Molly chose this place to work.”
The arcthiometer sparked and fizzed out with another whir, leaving them in the dark.
Tristan lit a few half-melted candles along the back side of the worktable, then unpacked the writing case, pulling out inkwells, pounce, dried herb bundles, a mortar and pestle, a large vial of silver scribing pigment base, and a box Maeve recognized.
He opened the lid and took out the left-handed swan quill edged in silver and set with a ruby. Her quill. He looked at her. “You haven’t carved it yet?”
Her face burned. “You took that from my worktable.”
“Yes, because I gave it to you to use, and the right tools make everything go faster.”
He set the feather down and sifted through his case again with a sigh. “I didn’t pack a quill knife because I didn’t think I’d need one. Do you have yours?”
The thought of carving that quill made Maeve feel ill, but she dug through her saddlebag. When she pulled out her quill knife, an envelope came with it. It sailed across the floor, stopping near Tristan’s right foot.
A blank envelope.
Another Oxblood letter.
When Tristan bent to pick it up, she raced forward, but he’d already lifted it.
“I need you to give that back to me,” Maeve said, trying to keep her composure.
“Is it your anonymous letter?”
“No. I—I don’t know what it is.”
His brows cinched together. “Then why are you terrified of me holding it?”
“I’m not.”
“Fine. Then let me open it to see what it is.” He took off a glove and dug a finger beneath the fold.
The ripping sound had her heart plummeting. If he was hurt because of her, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. She ran around the table. When he tried to dart away, she crashed into him with such force that they were both knocked to the ground. She rolled on top of him, searching his shirt. “Where is it?”
He pulled the envelope out from somewhere behind him, holding it out of reach. “I’ll give it to you if you tell me what’s inside.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me to. You were honest with me about Inverly.”
Yes, because her memories of Inverly weren’t actively trying to rip her throat out.
She didn’t know what to say.
He sighed and pulled a folded letter from the envelope.
“Wait! I think that’s a letter scribed by someone who is trying to hurt me.”
That startled him. “Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
Because they knew who she was and wanted her to leave. Or wanted something much worse. “I have no idea.”
“We should tell my father. He’ll start an investigation.”
Her breathing faltered. “You know my situation. If there was an investigation, there’s no way I would stay to see it through.”
“Then at least let me open the letter with you and inspect it. I might be able to tell things about the intention of the letter-writer. Scribings can look like they’re meant to harm when they’re harmless. Others that look harmless can be much more dangerous.” He held her stare, as if challenging her. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Of course he wouldn’t tell anyone, unless her full name was penned in red letters on the inside. But she considered his offer. “How about I read it first, then if there’s nothing specific, I’ll let you look?”
“Done.”
They both stood. Maeve carried the letter to the worktable, while Tristan tugged off his crematory ash satchel and placed it beside the paper. He looked the other way.
Maeve held her breath as she unfolded the letter.
“Well?” Tristan asked.
It wasn’t written in Oxblood ink.
It was a simple letter, beginning with My Sweet Deidre , then going into torrid details of how the author longed to touch his Deidre—everywhere.
It was one of the letters Maeve had stolen from the Scriptorium and stuck inside her saddlebag before crossing over to visit Plume it makes you violently sick. And there are no guarantees it will work. Sense scribings are tricky. It’s better to wait it out.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. A few minutes?”
“Whoever scribed that letter should be tossed down the abyss.”
Tristan nodded, then shifted to place the letter on the table and grazed Maeve’s wrist. The touch was feather-light, but they both stilled.
A bead of sweat caught on Maeve’s lip. She licked it away, and Tristan cursed beneath his breath. She wanted to kiss him. As soon as the thought entered her mind, it was all she could think about until she felt consumed by it. Then she wondered if it was all he could think about as well, and her body heated in a terrible blush.
Tristan’s eyes dropped, focusing on her mouth. Then he seemed to remember himself and scooted backward a step. Only a step—as if that was all he was capable of moving. His spectacles slid down his nose, and he pushed them up.
She wanted to reach across and take them off, to press her mouth to the bruises beneath his eyes.
She gripped the edge of the table.
“What do you plan to do after you leave the Post?” he asked in a strained tone.
“Are you trying to distract me?”
“Of course. Now answer my question.”
“I don’t know exactly what I’ll do,” Maeve forced out. “Probably head south.”
“And?”
“Work. Write. Plant a garden.”
“What kind of garden?”
“A small one, like the gardens that grew outside the College of Landscape Arts in Inverly, but on a sunny slope of a hill. With a pretty view and the most colorful flowers I can find seeds for. Then I’ll leave room in the center for a bench, where I can sit and write.”
“And what would you write?”
“Anything that came to me.” The cadence of his breathing notched up, and Maeve forced herself to picture the tangled, leafy flower beds, which her mind’s eye populated with plump sapphire buds matching the exact shade of Tristan’s blasted dinner jacket. “When I’m not writing,” she forced out, “my hands grow restless, and I find myself picking at my clothing and straightening things that are already straight. I love writing in my journal because it’s a release, and I’ve always thought a garden might be that as well, in a different way. But I haven’t been able to have a garden yet.”
Tristan’s tongue swiped along his bottom lip. “Why not?”
“Because I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of flowers?”
“Horribly.”
He huffed a laugh.
“I am. You see, I’m afraid that if I plant some, I’ll have to leave them suddenly. And I think leaving a garden to dry up and wither is sadder than never planting one in the first place.” Her eyebrows drew together. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that.”
“Thank you for confiding in me.”
“You’re welcome, but I don’t feel any different.”
“Neither do I.” His gaze flickered to hers.
She trembled, and without realizing what she was doing—without truly thinking at all—she lifted her hand and trailed a slow finger up the right side of his neck and along his jawline.
“You should probably stop that,” he said, and slipped a hand around her waist, pulling her against him, until she could feel the cold edges of his jacket buttons through her blouse.
“We’ll both stop on the count of three,” she whispered.
“Deal,” he said, but neither of them counted. His other hand cradled her neck, his fingers playing in the curls at her nape, his mouth treacherously close. “I think you should step away from me this instant. If you don’t, I’m fairly certain that I’m going to kiss you.”
Oh, how she wanted to kiss him, but a part of her held back. Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him , her mind chanted.
But it was the scribing putting these thoughts inside her head. She didn’t want this. How could she possibly want this? She clamped her lips together, determined to not kiss him. It didn’t stop her, however, from dragging her fingers across his scalp.
He cursed and slid her backward onto the worktable. Bottles crashed to the floor as he craned over her and nudged up the hem of her camisole, his warm hand carving a slow path across her belly. His teeth grazed along the edge of her jaw.
It felt as if she were melting, like if she breathed too deeply, she would unspool into a thousand particles to mingle with the arcane magic floating around them.
This was dangerous. And yet—and yet she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
She slipped her fingers beneath his jacket, gliding her hand up to the apex of his chest, frantic to touch him.
He tensed.
It was the slightest twitch of muscle, but felt like a bucket of cold water upended onto her scribing-addled mind.
Maeve pulled away, breath sputtering. “We need to stop this right now. We’re friends ,” she emphasized.
“I think we’re a little past being just friends,” he joked, then looked at her.
Whatever he saw in her face had him nod and push off her.
Maeve blinked up at the drear moths circling overhead. A rush of cold air skated over the tops of her thighs. The cold cleared her head, and she sat up. She still felt the dregs of the scribing on the edges of her mind, along with the start of a terrible headache.
Tristan opened windows across the room, letting in more cold air. He glanced at her then turned away quickly. “Your shirt.”
Maeve looked down at herself, horrified.
Her blouse was unbuttoned, her camisole rucked up above her navel, where his fingers had just been. A sharp pang of longing hit her.
Not real longing. No, it had to be another sensation brought on by that scribing. What they just did didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. She would forget all about it the following morning, and they would go about their merry business as if it never happened.
“Are you feeling normal again?” Tristan asked as she fixed her clothing.
“I’m fine,” she said, then stood and realized how not fine she was. A wave of nausea had her double over. Tristan rushed to help, but she held up a hand. “I told you I’m fine.”
“Strong sense scribings can sometimes have a nauseating effect the first time you read one. You’ll want to try to sleep it off for a few hours.”
Hours? “I can’t. I have to scribe.”
He rolled his eyes and dragged her to a spot on the rug before the hearth. She pulled her knees to her chin and hugged her calves, shivering.
“I’ll build a fire. Try not to freeze to death in the meantime,” he said, then went to work at the hearth, stacking wood, kindling. He removed his sapphire jacket, setting it aside.
Of course his fitted shirt strained across the muscles of his back while he worked. Maeve forced her eyes to the rug, wishing Tristan was small and hairy, not built like that .
Once the fire was going strong, he sat down beside her. The space between them felt charged and awkward. Why did he have to sit so close?
“You’re still wearing my socks,” he said with a wry curve to his mouth.
“They’re my socks now.” She stretched her toes like a cat before the flames.
They were both silent for a long moment, then Tristan asked, “Do you regret it?”
Her neck burned.
“We were influenced by the scribing,” she said, afraid to look at him.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get.”
She tipped her throbbing forehead against her knees and felt the instant Tristan stood, like a hot tickle of air against her side. A moment later, something soft and warm pressed into the small of her back. A stack of pillows.
Curling against them, Maeve tried to shift all thought away from Tristan, and found it impossible. The letter wasn’t their faults, but what they had done went far beyond anything she allowed herself. It was inexcusable and broke all her rules a hundred times over. And despite it all, she still wanted desperately to kiss him, which terrified her more than anything.
It took Maeve far too long to fall asleep, but when she finally did, she dreamed of dark vines weaving up walls, crawling over cobblestones and buildings. Of racing toward Blackcaster Station while bodies sank to the ground around her in a white-eyed sleep.
A shock of cold stabbed her finger.
She woke to a large drear moth perched like a hummingbird on her hand. It hung there like a silent shadow, then it fluttered its wings and took off toward the rafters, leaving behind a smear of centuries-old ink on her knuckle.
Maeve stared up, amazed, until something shifted to her left.
Tristan lay beside her, his hands tucked against the curve of her hip. One of his feet had woven itself around her leg like a curl of Aldervine from her dream. His spectacles were off, his blue-tinged eyelids shifting with each steady rise and fall of his chest. Sleeping soundly.
It felt like she was witnessing a small miracle.
He was still fully clothed in his shirt and trousers, but the neck of his shirt had come unbuttoned below his crematory ash satchel. The small sliver of his chest that was exposed had writing on it.
Maeve drew up. Was it a skin scribing or simply writing? She couldn’t tell from where she lay.
Her nausea seemed to be gone. She untangled herself and rolled onto her knees to get a closer look, then froze when Tristan stirred. He shifted to his side—away from her.
Something jangled.
A small ring of keys lay on the floor near his right arm. They must have slipped from his pocket.
Maeve pulled herself up, then tiptoed around Tristan and lifted the keys with the hem of her skirt so they wouldn’t make noise. Six total.
She pocketed them and left.