Chapter Sixteen. Rory
Rory
Wynne slid a steaming teacup and a plate of cake in front of Rory. It was a white, puffy affair, with lots of layers and globs of cream. Rory pulled the cup closer, inhaled, and curled himself gratefully around it, turning his back to the café window and the people streaming past it.
“Thanks.”
“You looked like you needed it.” She eyed him. “How long has it been since you’ve been to St. Claire?”
Rory thought for a moment. He could hardly remember the last time he saw his parents, let alone the last time they brought him to the city. “I don’t know. Eight years? Nine?”
Wynne recoiled. “So long? Bloody hell. No wonder you seem so out of it.”
He was. Wynne had to yank him back from two different crosswalks and snapped at him to pay attention to where he was going at least twice more.
But it was hard. It was as if Rory were a cup, filled to brimming.
Hugging Daye at the door, taking the train by himself, the sheer distance of it—watching the familiar fields around Ashford being replaced first with the sheep-dotted pastures of Westbrook, then with clusters of small towns whose names Rory had never learned, interspersed with farmlands where harvesting constructions moved silently between the rows—all of this would have been enough to fill him to the brim.
But arriving at the city itself? This was on the sheer-plunge side of overwhelming.
Everything was louder than he remembered.
Bigger and closer. And the people! All these people, walking and driving and standing.
Eating behind glass windows and shopping at stores and dragging garbage bags to stoops.
And the smells! Smoke and stone, rotting fruit and standing water, all mixed with puffs of humid, cake-scented air from the bakery or the clean smell of shampoo from the barber.
When Wynne maneuvered him into a café full of bright display cases, he didn’t even think to ask why.
Wynne cleared her throat. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Rory asked around a mouthful of cake.
“I should have been a better sister. I should have brought you to the city sooner, checked up on you more often after I left for the university. I shouldn’t have left you alone in the middle of nowhere for so long.”
“S’okay.” He swallowed. “I’m not alone. I have Daye. And I like our home.”
Her lip curled, but she seemed to decide it wasn’t worth the argument. Instead, she asked, “How do you like the cake?”
“Oh my god, this is amazing,” Rory said around another mouthful. “I never had anything like it.”
“Yeah, I bet. I swear, Mrs. Matthews only knows how to make one pie. I know she changes the fruit every season, but somehow it always tastes exactly the same.”
Rory grinned back, messy and young, and scooped up another mouthful.
“Slow down.” Wynne laughed. “I’ll go and bring us another.”
Rory downed the last of his tea and asked, sheepishly, if he could have some coffee.
“Really?” Her eyebrows shot up. “You are growing up,” she said, ruffling his hair on the way to the counter. Rory batted her hand away half-heartedly.
He took another forkful while she was away, taking care to pick up as much cream as his tiny fork could carry. Daye would like this, he thought, even if she couldn’t really eat it. Though maybe he could change that.
“Hey,” he asked his sister as she settled across from him, new pudding in hand, “do you know if anyone’s tried to make it possible for a Blodeuwedd to eat?”
“Oh. My. God. You are such an obsessive little nerd.” She reached across the table and mussed his hair again. “Can’t you give it a rest for five minutes?”
Rory batted her hand away again, more forcefully this time. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
Wynne bit down on a smile. “At the rate you’re shooting up, I might actually believe it. I can’t believe you’re fifteen already.”
A moment of silence, then Rory pressed again. “Do you? Know?”
She sighed. “No, I don’t. But I know someone in the library who might be able to point you in the right direction.
” She pointed at an elaborate gate across the street.
“I’ll take you there tomorrow morning. There’s no point going there now”—she headed Rory off before he could object—“the library’s closing soon.
And anyway, that librarian works the morning shift.
I’ll take you there first thing in the morning, you menace, and introduce you around before I head to class. ”
Rory closed his mouth with a snap. “Thanks.” He would never admit it to his sister, but he was a little relieved. He was still too dazed, too overwhelmed by it all, to actually be able to concentrate.
He took another bite of the cake and hummed happily. It really was delicious.
“Mrs. Finnebone, but you can call me Brenna.” The librarian behind the counter introduced herself with an alarming twinkle in her eyes. “I understand you’re looking into Blodeuwedds as a personal project?”
“Um, yeah,” Rory said.
“Hmm. And you’re not a student yet, are you?”
“Er, no.” Rory tried not to squirm. “My sister, Wynne, the one who was just here, is a student. She got me a pass. I, um—”
“Excellent. So, I would wager that no one told you how to search for books. Or how to read them.”
“Um.”
“Let’s remedy that,” she said, circling the counter to Rory’s side. “I have to say, Blodeuwedds are a personal passion of mine—so lovely! They are a little like butterflies, don’t you think? Now, come with me.”
Rory didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his words, with himself.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked with someone he didn’t know.
He could no longer remember how to do so.
But Mrs. Finnebone didn’t seem to mind as she led him around the library, pointing at index cards and aisle numbers and throwing around names Rory barely managed to catch as he trailed behind her.
It wasn’t four shelves like Wynne said, Rory discovered.
It was a full bookcase in the botany section, books upon books about flora and its uses in construction work; it was three shelves in the history section, detailing the impact of construction works on battles and labor and agriculture, with two slim books devoted solely to the history of Blodeuwedds; it was a dusty shelf tucked in the back of the philosophy section, debating the ethics of construction work, about half of it devoted to the particular ethical quandary of Blodeuwedds and animal constructs; and it was a whole glorious row—six full bookcases—in the engineering section, all devoted to the mechanics of construction works, with two shelves dedicated to the construction of Blodeuwedds alone.
Rory stood and stared, overwhelmed by the sheer number of books. This, this was exactly what he was looking for. But it would take years, decades, to read even a fraction of it. Weeks to even realize how to navigate this book maze. And he only had days.
Rory’s hands clenched at his sides, his heart beating fast with the sheer impossibility of it.
“Now,” Mrs. Finnebone said, with a soft, knowing smile, “is the time to talk about how you read.” She pulled a book from the shelf and flipped to the last pages, leading Rory to a table nearby. “Let’s talk about indices and skimming.”
Rory spent the next two days at a table next to a dusty window, lit by green lamps.
Every once in a while, he would catch sight of autumn-red hair or an almost familiar silhouette, and stop to wonder how Daye was, what she was doing without him.
Every time, a faint sort of worry would gather, together with the urge to go find a pay phone and call her, just so he’d know that she could still pick up.
But here in the city, it was almost easy to convince himself that Daye was safe, that of course she was safe—why wouldn’t she be?
And then he would turn another page and catch another tantalizing glimpse of something—a promising reference, an ingredient he never thought of—and any other thought would be snuffed out.
By the end of the second day, the table was messy with books and piles, and Rory could feel new ideas sloshing behind his eyes in a jumble.
And this, said Mrs. Finnebone, was only the fundamentals—he never even got around to asking about Daye eating food, not to mention any of the other questions he meant to ask.
When Wynne came to collect him, a little before the library closed, he was at the cusp of begging.
“Please,” he said, hands splayed over the pile of books that looked most promising. “Please please please, can you take these out for me?”
She gave him a calculating look. “You can take three. And”—she raised a warning finger before he could speak—“you have to bring them back in a month. And you must bring them yourself, not by mail. I am not paying late fees or explaining that I lost a book because you mailed it somewhere.”
“Oh.” He couldn’t help but feel relieved by Wynne’s restrictions. Not having to just up and leave the answers waiting here? To be able to take these books home and come back in a month? To have days more to browse the shelves? That was so much more than he’d thought to wish for.
He’d come ready next time. He wouldn’t get as overwhelmed, wouldn’t spend hours just wandering the aisles, fingers trailing across the spines as he imagined all the answers he could find.
“Okay.” He said quietly, looking down. He busied himself with sorting through the books on the table, pretending he couldn’t see his sister’s lips curving slyly into a smile.