Chapter 34
Nelle
Ihadn’t laughed so hard in my entire life.
Sage pawed at my leg with a half-hearted bark, trying to rouse me from my laugh-induced coma. I lay there staring up at the vaulted ceiling, cheeks tingling, belly aching from how long I’d been howling.
“Okay, okay,” I murmured, nudging him away. I pushed upright, the messenger bag’s strap digging into my shoulder, and wiped my damp cheeks with the hem of my dress before heading to the kitchen on unsteady legs.
The Crowthers really thought I was frightened of them. That I’d be cowering in a dark corner, broken and weeping. It was the funniest thing I’d ever heard come out of Graysen’s mouth. And the look on his face when he asked…he’d actually been worried.
I filled a cup with water and drank deeply, sighing as the coolness slid down my throat. The glass chimed softly against the sink when I set it down to deal with tomorrow with my very own hands, since the servants had the weekend off.
Entering the bathroom, I padded to the vanity and rose on tiptoes to pluck my toothbrush from the canister.
When I opened the drawer for toothpaste, my gaze snagged on the shallow wicker basket overflowing with brand-new toothbrushes still sealed in their packets.
I shook my head at Graysen—he had no idea at all what I’d done.
Ten minutes later, ready for bed, I stepped into the bedroom.
Tossing the bag onto the mattress, I stripped, letting my clothes fall where they landed.
My nightie slid over my skin in a ripple of silk.
Sage trotted in, tail wagging, as I pulled back the blankets and slipped between the soft sheets, tucking them around my hips.
For the past few hours, I’d spent my time undisturbed in the library, hunting through the computer’s archives for the Keep’s blueprints. Of course, there weren’t any. The digital catalog teased me with titles that should’ve held floor plans, but the books themselves were missing from the shelves.
The Crowthers really were paranoid motherfuckers.
Sage had curled up by the fire while I scoured the Heart of the Keep for any hint of a hidden doorway.
The library was enormous, and I had no idea what would unlock it—a trigger in a book, a sconce, a pressure plate beneath a rug.
It would take more than one night to search properly.
And at my family home, you needed a key to open the escape tunnel door.
That would be a problem for later.
First, I needed to find the godsdamned tunnel.
Dragging the bag closer, I dug out the book Dustin had given me under the pretense that I’d dropped it. It wasn’t the book I was interested in; it was the letter Dustin had surreptitiously passed onto me, hidden between its leaves.
I’d read the letter a few times in the library, and now I couldn’t resist one more read-through before I hid it away with my notebook and caught some sleep.
Spreading the book open on my lap, I plucked out the formal envelope.
It was exactly the same as all the other letters Evvie had received over the past few months.
Concealed inside was a smaller envelope addressed to me.
I ran my finger over Nelle Wychthorn written in black ink on the latest letter sent to me from my secret pen pal.
Contained within was a photograph.
It was a Polaroid taken with an instant camera of an elderly man rugged up in a dark green woolen jersey and a slouchy hat.
He sat on a park bench in front of a metal table with his arms folded while he studied a chessboard, the pieces in mid-game.
Wrinkles heavily lined his weathered gray features. His expression was serious.
The back of the Polaroid contained my latest letter.
This is Matthew. He’s retired now, but he used to be a bookkeeper for a custom cabinetry business.
He comes down to the gardens at the lake almost every afternoon to play chess with anyone he can convince to spare him an hour of game time.
Often it’s tourists he ensnares. He’s a real stickler for the rules.
If you touch a piece, not meaning to move it or take it, declare your intent with ‘adjust.’ That’s all I fucking heard.
Adjust, adjust, adjust. Because he likes the pieces to sit perfectly on the board.
My grin was broad. Matthew looked intense but sweet.
I could imagine him strolling up to a couple admiring the gardens and fountains at the lakeside, convincing them to play a game.
I didn’t compete in chess very often, only the odd match with my father over the years.
And at the thought of him, of all those times we sat across the black-and-white checkered board from one another, pain pierced my heart.
I rubbed the pang from my chest, vowing that I’d see my father once more, and I’d go down to Ascendria’s lake to find Matthew and offer him a game.
I slumped against my fluffy pillow, tucking the Polaroid back into the envelope.
Only two other people knew of these letters—my sister, and the person who wrote them, whoever he was. I’d always assumed it was a guy from the way they wrote. He had nice, neat handwriting, and was careful with his penmanship.
There wasn’t anything else inside, no secret communication from Evvie, but I didn’t need it. This letter was the message. My sister purposely gave it to him, and this was the message from her to me: to trust Dustin Reed.
Evvie had found a way to get a spy into the Crowther’s fortress.
Which was astonishing. I couldn’t believe she’d pulled this off.
There was only one slight kink in her plan.
Jett—the asshole—had sent Dustin off on a random, stupid mission to fetch absinthe from the Woodworm Driads, and I wouldn’t see him for a few more days.
I couldn’t ask how Evvie and my family were or have him pass on a message to them.
I absentmindedly tapped the edge of the envelope against the book, thinking of the man I had met in the library.
Dustin had been a little clumsy and overly eager and utterly taken aback when he first encountered me.
Now I knew why. He hadn’t expected to run into me so soon.
Perhaps he thought I would be locked away in the dungeon below the Keep, not wandering around unattended as if I belonged there.
He was handsome, too. Different from Graysen, shorter and leaner, with brown hair and eyes and a neat, bristly beard. I liked his smile. He seemed to beam with his entire face. And he loved libraries, which was a love we both shared.
Sage suddenly pounced onto the bed. The mattress dipped and then bounced under his immense weight as he jumped about, and the abrupt motion sent the book soaring off my lap to fall flat on the floor. The leaves flapped back and forth, finally settling down and splayed open.
“Sage,” I growled without any real menace.
My wraith-wolf ignored me, approaching to nudge his moist nose into the side of my face, his huffing breath washing across my skin as he pushed in for a pet.
I rubbed behind his ears and under his chin, the bed thumping as he eagerly wagged his tail.
Satisfied, Sage stretched out beside me, loosened a contented, sleepy huff.
Raising a hand, I arched my neck and scratched at an itchy spot beneath the irritating collar before leaning over the side to pick up the fallen book. My sight caught on the heading written across the opened page, Tears of the Broken Hearted, as I dragged it back up and propped it on my lap.
I hadn’t bothered looking at the old tome earlier because the envelope inside had enthralled me.
It was huge and smelled of dust and ancient parchment and wonder. Gilding adorned the pages, and a few creases from dog-ears prevented them from lying perfectly flat. My fingertips tripped down the book’s spine, and it felt a little damaged, as if it had been broken somewhere along the centuries.
Keeping my forefinger wedged on the open page, I flicked through the earlier leaves.
The first half was mostly small, otherworldly creatures.
Interesting, but of no consequence. But partway through, the writer changed from someone with flourishing penmanship to another author with much more legible handwriting.
Neat and precise. Their later entries detailed strange things, rare findings.
I was about to read about the Tears of the Broken Hearted, but something on the opposite page captured my attention.
It was headed: Zrenyth’s Mites.
The author had written in their neat penmanship with ink and quill—Zrenyth’s Mites: Tiny, black, otherworldly creatures with long life.
Almost invisible to the human eye. The mites have five life cycles.
From egg to larva, with two adolescent cycles before reaching adulthood.
The mites feed off magic threaded through inanimate objects, specifically magic hailing from our God, Zrenyth.
I cocked my head to the side, my hair sliding over my shoulder while I pondered the term inanimate objects.
Oh my gods…
My spine locked straight, and the breath caught in my throat.
Zrenyth had forged the rope collaring my neck.
My gaze shot back to the page, scanning it so rapidly I wasn’t taking it all in properly. My mind was working overtime, my thoughts scattering in different directions like wind blustering through a pile of curled, rusty leaves.
I forced myself to slow down and start at the very beginning to re-read the notes detailing Zrenyth’s mites.
As I took it all in, exhilaration burst through me. A shriek almost erupted from my throat, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop it.
Dustin must have purposely given me this book.
Sage reared his head, his big ears pricking with curiosity.
I ruffled the thick, cool fur around his neck and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the flat of his snout. “Sage,” I whisper-hissed in elation. “We’ve got a way out of this!”
Holy Skalki!
I couldn’t let my excitement alert Graysen. I didn’t want him barreling in here demanding answers because I wanted to squeal and dance in euphoria. He could never discover what I’d stumbled upon.
It was my beloved father’s deep voice that spoke the words inside my mind. Calm, Nelle…calm.
Slowly, my heartbeat slowed, slowed to a calmer pace.
According to what was written, if I could get my hands on these mites, they would feed off the magic attached to the collar around my throat. And in doing so, they’d eat right through the godsdamned rope. It could take them a week or two, maybe a little longer.
However, as I continued to read the last passage, my stomach sank.
Zrenyth’s mites were rare, very rare, and the author detailed that there had only been one case of the otherworldly creatures being sighted.
In their treasure trove, a sword forged by Zrenyth had mysteriously vanished.
It wasn’t until later, when the author discovered the mites on a half-corroded dagger nearby, still consuming the remnants of Zrenyth’s magic and metal, that they realized what had happened.
As for whose treasure trove it was, the text never said.
Nevertheless, I’d been given a lead.
There was a very real chance of freeing myself from the magical collar because Zrenyth had blessed the Crowthers with the weapons and tools he’d forged for their warfare and wyrm taming.
Maybe, just maybe, the Crowthers had Zrenyth’s mites lurking in their armory.