Chapter Nine #2
The acolyte remained unimpressed. “It’s not every day we have someone new in our library.” She dumped the books onto Nesta’s cart. “These can be shelved.”
“I don’t answer to acolytes.”
The priestess drew up to her full height, which was slightly taller than average for Fae females. A crackling sort of energy buzzed around her, and Nesta’s power grumbled in answer. “You’re here to work,” the acolyte said, her voice unruffled. “And not only for Clotho.”
“You speak rather informally of your high priestess.”
“Clotho does not enforce rank. She encourages us to use her name.”
“And what is your name?” She would certainly be complaining to Clotho about this impertinent acolyte’s attitude.
The priestess’s eyes glittered with amusement, as if aware of Nesta’s plan. “Gwyneth Berdara.” Unusual, for these Fae to use family names. Even Rhys didn’t use one, as far as Nesta knew. “But most call me Gwyn.”
A level above, two priestesses walked by the railing in silence, hooded heads bowed and books in their arms. Nesta could have sworn one of them watched, though.
Gwyn tracked the focus of her attention. “That’s Roslin and Deirdre.”
“How can you tell?” With their hoods on, they appeared nearly identical save for their hands.
“Their scents,” Gwyn said simply, and turned to the books she’d left on the cart. “Do you plan to shelve these, or do I need to take them elsewhere?”
Nesta leveled a flat look at her. Living down here, there was a good chance the priestesses didn’t know who she was. What she’d done. What power she bore. “I’ll do it,” Nesta said through clenched teeth.
Gwyn hooked her hair behind her arched ears. Freckles dotted her hands, too, like splattered bits of rust. If marks of trauma lingered, any evidence was hidden by her robe.
But Nesta knew well how invisible wounds could be. How they could scar as deeply and badly as any physical breaking.
And it was for that reminder alone that Nesta said more gently, “I’ll do it right now.” Perhaps she had a little bit of her decency quota left.
Gwyn marked the change. “I don’t need your pity.” The words were sharp, as clear as her teal eyes.
“It wasn’t pity.”
“I’ve been here for nearly two years, but I haven’t become so disconnected from others that I can’t tell when someone remembers why I am here and alters their behavior.” Gwyn’s mouth flattened to a line. “I don’t need to be coddled. Only spoken to like a person.”
“I doubt you’ll enjoy the way I speak to most people,” Nesta said.
Gwyn snorted. “Try me.”
Nesta looked at her from under lowered brows again. “Get out of my sight.”
Gwyn grinned, a broad, bright thing that showed most of her teeth and made her eyes sparkle in a way Nesta knew her own never had. “Oh, you’re good.” Gwyn turned back to the stacks. “Really good.” She vanished into the gloom.
Nesta stared after her for a long moment, wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing. Two friendly conversations in one day. She had no idea when such a thing had last occurred.
Another hooded priestess drifted by, and offered Nesta a bob of the chin in greeting.
Quiet settled around her, as if Gwyn had been a summer storm that blew in and evaporated within a moment. Sighing, Nesta gathered the books Gwyn had left on the cart.
Hours later, dusty and exhausted and finally hungry, Nesta stood before Clotho’s desk and said, “Same story tomorrow?”
Clotho wrote, Are you not pleased by your work?
“I would be if your acolytes didn’t boss me around like a servant.”
Gwyneth mentioned she had run into you earlier. She works for Merrill, my right hand, who is a fiercely demanding scholar. If Gwyneth’s requests were abrupt, it was due to the pressing nature of the work she does.
“She wanted me to shelve her books, not find more.”
Other scholars need them. But I am not in the business of explaining my acolytes’ behavior. If you did not like Gwyneth’s request, you should have said so. To her.
Nesta bristled. “I did. She’s a piece of work.”
Some might say the same of you.
Nesta crossed her arms. “Some might.”
She’d have bet that Clotho was smiling beneath her hood, but the priestess wrote, Gwyneth, like you, has her own history of bravery and survival. I would ask that you give her the benefit of the doubt.
Acid that felt an awful lot like regret burned in Nesta’s veins. She shoved it aside. “Noted. And the work is fine.”
Clotho only wrote, Good night, Nesta.
Nesta trudged up the steps, and entered the House proper. The wind seemed to moan through the halls, answered only by her grumbling stomach.
The private library was mercifully empty when she strode through the double doors, instantly relaxing at the sight of all those books crammed close, the sunset on the city below, the Sidra a living band of gold.
Sitting at the desk before the wall of windows, she said to the House, “I’m sure you won’t do it now, but I would like that soup. ”
Nothing. She sighed up at the ceiling. Fantastic.
Her stomach twisted, as if it’d devour her organs if she didn’t eat soon. She added tightly, “Please.”
The soup appeared, a glass of water beside it. A napkin and silverware followed. A fire roared to life in the hearth, but she said quickly, “No fire. No need.”
It banked to nothing, but the faelights in the room flared brighter.
Nesta was reaching for her spoon when a plate of fresh, crusty bread appeared. As if the House were a fussing mother hen.
“Thank you,” she said into the quiet, and dug in.
The faelights flickered once, as if to say, You’re welcome.