Chapter 10 Quinn
QUINN
Ifollowed Mav and Thistle inside, my boots brushing over a faded rug. The congested air held its breath, as though the building had been swallowing its own secrets for centuries and was not yet inclined to release them.
Not a shop at all.
A mind, mid-wander.
Shelves lined the walls in architectural defiance—slanted, shored up by broken chair legs and wishful enchantments.
Scrolls were stacked like firewood beside a hearth that had never known flame.
Piles of books—leather, canvas, bark, one bound entirely in stitched feathers—leaned toward collapse but somehow never fell.
A few volumes hovered among bobbing lanterns.
Above the counter, a lopsided sign announced in fading gold: No refunds for truth.
At the back, a narrow spiral staircase climbed upward.
One might live here for years and still fail to discover every title hidden in its corners.
Behind me, a tome shifted. Not the soft rustle of pages, but deliberate movement.
It slid two inches to the left as I glanced over my shoulder.
The tether at my ribs stirred, drawing inward. Ahead, Mav had strayed several paces, arrested by a shelf with a handwritten placard: Geographies of the Disproven.
Of course, he would find the section for doubters.
I moved carefully, mindful of the peculiar hush living here. The air buzzed with a curious intelligence, as though the shop itself observed us.
From behind a leaning tower labeled Historical Inaccuracies that Changed Everything, a voice rasped, “Hovering won’t get you a discount.”
An aging man unwound from the stacks—tall and gangly, draped in an oversized cardigan bagged at the elbows; his shirt bore the softened wear of long affection.
Enormous spectacles magnified brown eyes into polished marbles, resting on an overambitious nose and large ears.
Wisps of thinning hair had been combed dutifully across a shining crown.
“Branrir,” Thistle said, grinning. “Still muttering to your index cards in five languages?”
The man blinked at her, resembling a patient owl. “Still talking to plants more than people, I imagine?”
“You know plants are better company than most,” Thistle replied, stepping close to rest a fond hand on his shoulder. “I’ve brought friends. You already know Vesper.” She tipped her head toward the feline perched like an oversized bird on her shoulder. “And this is Mavromichaeli Bassiano.”
The corners of Branrir’s mouth lifted. “Ah, yes, the knight with a penchant for injury.”
Mav shot a glare at Thistle. “What’ve you said?”
“Nothing that wasn’t true,” she chuckled.
Then Branrir’s magnified eyes found me and held. More surprising than the intensity of his gaze was the recognition flaring within it.
“You’re awake,” he said.
I stilled, my spine straightening. What compelled him to phrase it so? “Yes,” I managed, the only answer that would come.
He took one unhurried step forward. “How long?”
I glanced at Thistle, then at Mav, uncertain if this was some veiled riddle.
Mav began, “We left Maelth just after dawn—”
Branrir lifted a hand—slender, precise—without moving his eyes from mine. “You know that isn’t the question. How many days into the fourteen?”
The number struck like porcelain smashing on stone.
My mouth parted. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fourteen days,” he repeated, adjusting his spectacles. “That’s how long you remain awake, is it not?”
My throat tightened. “How do you know that?”
He clasped his hands loosely behind his back. “Because, in certain circles, Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia, you are infamous.”
At my name on a stranger’s tongue, my heart leaped into double time. If he knew my identity, what else might he reveal?
Mav stepped slightly in front of me, the gesture warmly protective. “How do you know her name?”
“In some libraries, you’re a ghost,” Branrir continued. “In others, a myth. But in the ones I trust most…” He paused, head tilting. “You’re a tragedy wrapped in a question.”
Breath deserted me.
“The woman who defied a prince,” he said. “Who chose her will over a throne and disappeared.” Reverence warmed his voice. “You’re a legend.”
The air thinned. My mouth went dry. Mav stood utterly still. Thistle’s lips parted without sound. The words lingered with the dust motes suspended in lamplight.
You’re a legend.
I had lived centuries believing myself forgotten. Now, this balding scholar regarded me as though I had been carved into myth.
“Wait,” Vesper’s voice cut through the tense quiet. “You actually know this woman?”
“Know of her,” Branrir said, dipping his chin, “though I never thought I’d meet her.” He inclined in a courteous half-bow. “Branrir Waller. An honor, milady.”
A curtsy moved through me out of pure habit.
Branrir vanished into the labyrinth of shelves. “Wait there,” he called, voice muffled. “I’ve something to show you.”
I exchanged a glance with Mav. He was as perplexed as I was. The tether hummed between us, restless. Branrir returned carrying a thick leather-bound volume, its spine cracked, corners furred by age. He blew dust from its gilded cover and laid it gingerly upon the counter.
“Magical Ethics and Political Enchantments of the Second Age,” he said, stroking the cover as one might a pet. “Out of print. Banned in most kingdoms. This copy survived the royal library fire in Avilogne.”
Mav arched a brow. “You keep banned books?”
“Only the worthwhile ones,” Branrir said, brightness peeking through.
He paged through with careful fingers, murmuring until he found a faded ribbon. “Here.”
I stepped closer, fingertips grazing the counter’s rough edge.
The page was wrought with surprising text.
The letters appeared far too neat to have been handwritten.
Centered on the page was a hand-inked illustration.
And there, rendered in sepia strokes, was my face.
Not perfect, but near enough to bear an unmistakable resemblance.
My hair. My mouth. The shape of my eyes.
Ceremonial robes. An unsmiling expression.
Beneath, in old Avandric: The Sleeping Twilight: A Case of Sovereign Magic and Refusal.
My hands curled before I knew they had.
“Saints,” Thistle breathed, eyes lifting to mine, wide with understanding. “You’re a Twilight?”
Terror stumbled through my chest; heat pricked my eyes. Here it was—the moment I had feared all my life. The truth, bared.
Mav angled his body between us, in a kind but useless show of gallantry. “It’s not what it looks like. She’s not dangerous, she just—”
A laugh bubbled out of Thistle, a wonderfully odd cackle. “Well, no wonder you didn’t want to say anything.”
“You are not angry that we kept the truth from you?” I asked, confusion warring with fierce relief.
“We all have secrets, dear. Not all are mine to keep,” she said, reaching to squeeze my hand.
A tear rolled down my cheek unbidden. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Branrir sucked a breath through his teeth. “Ah. My mistake. I didn’t realize the entire party wasn’t informed. My apologies, milady.”
I managed a small, acknowledging shake of my head.
“It’s nice to watch someone other than Bassiano put his foot in his mouth,” Vesper purred.
Mav rolled his eyes at the cat and leaned toward the page. “So, this is—”
“Yes,” Branrir said softly. “The woman who refused a throne and was punished with a bed of silence. Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia.”
Beneath the illustration, the text revealed details I myself had not known: the names of the mages who stood witness at the binding; theories tying my awakenings to a pre-coded fourteen-day cycle; speculation that the spell braided inheritance tethering with chronal stasis—magic so sophisticated it might be irreversible.
I felt reduced to ink and margin. Not a woman, but a warning.
Branrir closed the book with a gentle thud. “You’ve become a symbol,” he said. “Whether you asked for it or not.”
“I assure you, I did not.” My fingers worried at my skirts, needing somewhere to direct my nerves.
“It was not a throne I refused. I had no wish to be entered into a royal ledger of heir-bearers.” I folded my arms tight across my chest. “I was the only Twilight in the kingdom. They wanted my blood and my abilities at their disposal.”
They regarded me now not with pity and awe, but with understanding. Some part of me would have preferred the former.
Mav’s forehead creased as he looked to Branrir. “How’d you know to go looking for this?”
“I’m a Hindsight. I remember everything I’ve ever read. Every ledger, journal, scrap of magical theory. And she—” Branrir tipped his head at me, “happens to be one of the most fascinating unsolved mysteries I’ve encountered. I have so many questions to—”
“She’s not some topic for academic study,” Mav spat, muscles tensing. “She’s a real person who’s stuck in this mess because of some asshole. So can you help us, or not?”
Heat flashed in my chest at his defense.
“I’m not sure.” Branrir adjusted his spectacles. “According to the texts, the spell is a dyad.”
“Wait,” Vesper said, raising a paw. “What the seven hells is a dyad?”
“A dyad is a spell cast by weaving two magics together. In this case, Tether and Time. They are extremely rare because it necessitates two people uniting in alchemical spellwork—the joining of both magics into one intention.” He hesitated, then met my gaze.
“Quinn is the only known subject of a successful dyad.”
“In the last few centuries?” Thistle asked.
“Ever.”
The word tolled like a midnight bell. Ever. We had moved beyond myth into precedent. The tether hummed low, as if to insist I was more than a diagram in the margins.
“Do you know how to break this—dyad, or whatever you called it?” Mav asked.
“No.”
The single syllable formed a pit in my stomach.
“No?” Mav repeated, flat.
“Not exactly.” Branrir bit at his lower lip and looked to me. “Do you remember who cast it?”
I managed a nod. “Edric Renaudin. Then the crowned prince of Avandria.”