Chapter 36
Be quick , Maeve told herself. But her feet felt like lead weights as she raced up another flight of stairs, then down long aisles of books and through rooms she hadn’t seen the first time she was here. There was no sign of Sibilla, so Maeve searched the next floor, breathless.
A cart rattled, and footsteps clicked against the stone floor. Maeve flew around an aisle toward the sounds, then skidded to a halt.
Sibilla stood between two large bookshelves, a sorting cart beside her, her frail arms clutching her chest. She held her long gray apron crumpled in her fist as her body trembled. Her face was ashen, and Maeve had to remind herself how dangerous this woman was.
“What are you doing here?” Sibilla asked, her words laced with apprehension.
She must not have expected Maeve to remain in Gloam and seek her out.
Maeve’s pulse thundered in her ears. She took a slow step forward, wishing she still had one of Tristan’s scribed books with her. “I’m here because I want the truth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, spare me your lies. You know exactly who I am, don’t you?”
Her mouth pinched, then flattened. “Yes,” she admitted. Her bottom lip began to tremble, then her eyes glassed over, and a glistening tear spilled down her cheek. Maeve couldn’t tell if Sibilla’s reactions were real or an act. “I would recognize you anywhere. You look nearly identical to Aoife.”
“Do not bring my mother into this,” Maeve snapped, pulling her spine straight as fury built inside of her, fueling her. “I’m sure you’re more than aware that people are hunting me. I don’t have much time. I know my father was innocent, and I want you to tell me what happened.” And especially how you were involved , Maeve thought, but didn’t voice it yet.
She fully expected Sibilla to balk at her request, so it came as a surprise when Sibilla nodded. “Very well.”
“You’ll tell me everything?”
“I suppose you deserve to know. But afterward, I want you to leave this place for good. Understand?”
Sibilla said it as if Maeve had a choice in the matter. And she sounded kind . Maeve didn’t expect any kindness, and it threw her off. “I’m listening.”
Sibilla unwrapped her arms and wove her fingers together. “Well, if I’m going to start anywhere, I should begin with your mother.”
“My mother?”
“Yes. Aoife was my best friend at upper school, and we remained close. I came to the College of Scriptomantic Arts to work as an archivist right before she died. Aoife suspected her time in the worlds was nearing its end and asked me to check on your father.” Her voice faltered. “But your mother was a shining light to all who knew her. It was no wonder that after she was gone, it broke your father. I found him weeping one day. We sat and spoke about your mother for hours, and then I gave him a tour of these archives.” She smiled softly. “He liked it down here.”
Maeve wiped tears from her eyes, trying to keep her focus. Officers would be coming through this floor soon. She couldn’t afford to turn into a puddle in front of this woman before they arrived. “What about the Silver Scribing that he was working on?”
“You know about it?”
“Not much,” Maeve said, deciding to keep the rose journal that currently sat in her saddlebag a secret for the time being.
“The Silver Scribing nulled the effects of scriptomancy,” Sibilla said. “It made it so a scriptomancer could interact with any scribing. And it worked, Maeve. It worked perfectly. But your father didn’t know how to tell the stewards because skin scribings were strictly forbidden. It was written in the college’s edicts that a scriptomancer could be sent to prison for even attempting one, along with anyone else that might have helped them. I broke that law when I dug up books for your father to reference—restricted books that needed approval from a steward to even be read. But I was in love.” A muscle twinged in her cheek. She looked to the ground. “It’s why I can’t come forward.”
“You’re worried someone will lock you up for helping my father with the skin scribing?” It sounded ridiculous considering she was a murderer.
“They will,” she said. “They’ll take away my position at the very least. This place is home now. There’s nowhere else I want to live.”
And yet Sibilla was forcing Maeve away from her only home—from everything she had ever known.
Anger lashed beneath the surface of Maeve’s skin. It took a moment before she could gather enough composure to even think of continuing with this interrogation.
Then a dark shape shifted behind Sibilla, at the far end of the aisle.
One of Tristan’s manifestations had found its way here.
Maeve tightened her fingers around her ash satchel and inched nearer to Sibilla, hoping the manifestation wouldn’t come any closer for the time being. She still needed answers.
“Then what happened in Inverly?” Maeve asked in a flat tone. “I know you were there. Your account of Inverly was in the minister’s records.”
“You found that?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I was supposed to meet you that day, you know? Jonathan had finally decided that it was time to introduce us. He asked to meet him after a luncheon he’d planned with someone else. He wanted to bring me to your aunt’s house.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Then the Aldervine appeared before I ever left the station, so I turned around and came right back here.”
“You’re a liar,” Maeve said. “He was murdered a block from the station. You would have had to leave the station to carry it out.”
Sibilla’s eyebrows drew together. “Jonathan was murdered?”
Maeve stared at her, unable to deduce if she was a wonderful actor or truly surprised to hear of her father’s demise. That dark shape was nearly at Sibilla’s back.
Biting out a curse, Maeve ripped off her crematory ash satchel. She still had some ash coating her fingers from before, but she upended the rest of the ash into her palm. She was about to throw it when the manifestation crept over Sibilla’s shoulder and snaked around her throat, then curled around both of her arms.
It was deep green with waxy leaves and small black thorns running along a lace of stalk. A long, wet leaf unfurled against Sibilla’s neck. Black thorns kissed over her skin, drawing blood, until little rivulets streaked her starched apron. Sibilla’s irises turned a milky white as it wove around her temple like a crown, piercing her.
And then a tendril of the Aldervine parted Sibilla’s pale lips and pushed its way inside of her mouth, then out the base of her neck.