Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Iopen the big oak doors to the library with a heave. They creak as I slip through them, and I suddenly feel like I’m in a cocoon—all wrapped up in the comfort of warm lighting, the crackle of the hearth, and the smell of books.
It’s as if that comfort seeps into my bones every time I push through those oak doors.
There’s something about being in a library that feels so overwhelmingly calming.
Like between these bookcases, you are protected from everything outside these walls, whether it be a winter storm, coyotes, or witch hunts. Nothing can get to you in here.
A warm smile greets me as I walk up to the desk. “Everleigh, thank the gods you are here!” Cedar rounds the desk to wrap me in a tight embrace. “I have nearly lost my marbles in here today. Not even the warmth of the hearth has been able to stop the urge to gnaw on my own bones, it's been so dull.”
I can’t help the grin that emerges on my face. “Gods, you get dramatic when you’re bored, don’t you?”
“Yes, in fact I do.” She folds her arms in front of her, her deep tawny skin creasing in between her eyebrows. “I have to entertain myself somehow.”
“I’ve got an idea,” I say, and her light eyes widen. “Read a book.”
Her eyes then roll. “Wow, you are just so intelligent. How had I not thought of that sooner?”
“Honestly, I’m not quite sure.” I bring a finger to my jaw in faux wonder. “It’s almost as if the idea was right under your nose, right in front of you, if you will.”
Cedar just turns her back to me, rounding the desk and collapsing back into her chair, her sun-kissed brown hair falling down her back. “If only I hadn’t read every book in this place already.”
I just smile. “Well then, it won’t be too difficult of a task for you to help me figure out where I need to look.”
“What are you after?” She springs up.
“I’m looking for old healers' journals, things from as many years back as you’ve got,” I say as she walks us down a row of old-looking books.
This library is the biggest in Tarragon, and it’s home to tomes and journals as old as Sylvan—-just as old as Nameria itself—and Cedar is the keeper of them all.
“I want to try Belladonna for a patient of Thorley’s—”
“That can kill, Everleigh,” she whispers.
“I know, hence the need for an old healer's journal.”
I can’t stop thinking about Dahlia, about how I can help her. Belladonna can help in situations like hers. It seems to alter the way one’s nervous system works, meaning it could give Dahlia a moment's rest from the turmoil of her mind.
Belladonna is something most healers don’t use because of its unpredictability. It can be unsafe—just as Cedar worries—and it has even been known to kill if the dosage is incorrect. All that means to me is that I have to administer the correct dosage.
“They used to experiment with it all the time. If there’s anywhere I can find the right dosage to administer, it’s somewhere in here.”
Sylvan was one of the original villages built back when the first settlers arrived in Tarragon—not that I know exactly where they came from.
It matters little in parts like ours. But being one of the first places people called home in Nameria means we hold some of its oldest history, right here behind these oak doors.
“Okay, here,” Cedar mutters names under her breath as she piles up book after book in my arms until my muscles feel weak under the pressure.
“I think that’s just about enough,” I say, poking my head around the stack of books so I can see her.
“There’s one more,” she mumbles, searching the shelves.
“I don’t need it,” I say before carefully turning around and heading for the desk. Cedar rounds the desk just as the books tumble from my arms onto the wooden top.
“Gods,” she swears, catching a journal before it slides onto the ground. “When did you become so frail?”
“I am not frail,” I argue, collecting a book of my own. “I just don’t carry around stacks of books every day like my dear friend does.”
“Maybe, just maybe,” she starts, with a mischievous glint in her eye, “you could get Sil—-”
“I’d like to see some books on Sylvan’s history.
” A deep voice cuts into our conversation.
It seems to have cut through every shred of peace in the entire building, because it is suddenly as silent as the small graveyard on the edge of town.
And not the harmonious quiet from earlier. No, this silence feels haunting.
Cedar’s gaze tells me I don’t want to look at where the man who spoke stands near me, so instead I latch onto the borrower’s log from where it was lying on the desk and begin to record the name of each journal in my pile under my name.
“Any particular part of the history, sir?” Cedar says, her voice so unlike herself, so unsure.
“You are the keeper of this library, are you not?” the man replies.
“I am sir, Cedar Wilburn.”
“Hm,” he mutters. “I don’t think I’ve heard of any other Wilburns here. Have you, gentlemen?” When I hear the murmurs in agreement from multiple voices, it forces me to look up.
The man next to me is clothed in a tightly fitted brown woollen coat that flares behind him, paired with a deep red waistcoat and light trousers.
He looks like someone who comes from a place far from here, and when his cold eyes meet mine, I understand why Cedar’s eyes went the size of saucers at the sight of him.
The two men standing beside him are dressed similarly, but their outfits are slightly duller than his, as if not to draw more attention than necessary.
“And who exactly are you?” he directs at me.
The other men’s eyes barely land on me before I quickly shift back to what I was doing. “Uh, no one, sir.”
I try to busy myself with the task in front of me, but it becomes slightly difficult when the log is snatched from beneath the weight of my hand.
“Everleigh Greene.” He says the words as if they are a poison on his tongue that he wants to spit out at once.
I reluctantly turn to face the men once more, keeping my head low. I’m unsure if that is how I am meant to portray myself. Unsure what the rules are here, what etiquette to use.
In towns further north in Rynwood, they have had mayors for years.
King Wyndbrook wanted one foot in every town around him.
But Tarragon has always been left alone.
We’ve never needed a stranger to come here and decide what is good for us.
But it seems it has been decided for us, and now I am standing face to face with exactly what that means.
“Are you going to fetch your mayor those books, Wilburn?” one of the men says.
“Oh, of course, sir—lord—Mr. Mayor,” Cedar spews out.
Mayor Hawthorne just nods, not correcting her one way or another. I can only assume the two men escorting the mayor are a part of the new council he has put together, combined with noblemen from everywhere but here, meaning they know nothing of this town or its people.
I struggle to understand the notion that somehow people from outside of one place are always the ones who get to decide what happens to it.
“What of you, Miss Greene?” the mayor drawls, his eyes tracing every inch of my body.
“What of me, sir?”
In an instant, he’s distracted by the journals I have stacked in front of me. “What are these?” He picks one up, carelessly unwinding the leather strap around it and using his plump fingers to hastily thumb through the pages, barely reading a single word.
“They are old healers’ journals, sir.”
His gaze snaps to mine, and I quickly realise my mistake. “Healers’ journals?”
I just stare at him blankly, unsure whether I’ve just dove headfirst into dangerous waters. He stares back, his nostrils wide as he looks me over.
“Your mayor asked you a question,” the same councilman spits. I notice the way the tip of his nose is red, almost as if he’s scrunched it in distaste a few too many times.
“I…uh—”
“Here, Mayor Hawthorne,” Cedar cuts in, appearing from within the shelves with an armful of tomes. “Every book I could find on the history of Sylvan.” The quieter of the two councilmen reaches out, taking the books from her.
“Good,” the mayor says. “That is good. I presume you didn’t leave anything out, Miss Wilburn.”
“Of course not, sir.” Cedar puts her hand over her heart, and her best smile is stuck on her face. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”
The mayor purses his lips, looking the both of us over once more before he turns and leaves through the oak doors without another word.
I swear I can hear a collective sigh of relief from every soul in this place. I almost think I hear the building itself let out a sigh, as if even the wooden doors held their breath until they were closed behind the men.
“Well,” Cedar says, “I suppose that’s him.”
“I think you suppose correctly,” I say mindlessly. “I might need that belladonna for myself. I believe my nightmares will be rotten with the impression of those men for a while.”
Cedar shivers. “Do you have anything that can make us forget? Because I truly wish I could go back in time and never encounter those men.”
I grab my friend's hand across the desk. “I fear that is going to be far from the last time we encounter them, Cedar.”