17. Enna
Chapter seventeen
Enna
The palace sweats at night. The air hangs in a blanket over the cold stone floor. The walls drip with condensation, leaving puddles on the marble. Even as my skin prickles with its own sweat, the stone saps the heat from my feet until my toes are numb rocks. I weave through the winding corridors, hoping the careful pace will lull my brain into a false sense of safety.
Each turn brings me into another hallway, lined with sconces of dancing flame. The palace echoes and groans around me. I walk with raised awareness, ears straining for sounds of danger. In the Drink, everything is a shadow. I could not see the darkness there; darkness just was. Here, it moves and dances in slithering phantoms, lurking in the corners and shifting as I pass.
It’s silly to think the shadows would pursue me. They’re just reflections of the light; they cannot hurt me. Even so, I cast a glance over my shoulder, watching them, making sure they do not make any sudden movements.
My father’s house has corridors like this, passageways that wind through the bowels of his water-tight mansion, connecting rooms, holding nothing but thick tapestry and flame, where the lesser beings roam free in the night. After my father and his family climbed into their cushioned beds, I haunted the halls, floating from room to room. It was the only time I could be truly alone, where no one looked at me and frowned.
I liked the library the best, for it was the room my father’s family used the least. They kept it unheated. The chill from the water outside seeped through the walls, and ice webbed across the ceiling. Dust clung to the shelves, dripping from the corners on strings of glowmite silk. It smelled of ancient history, of buried knowledge. I fell asleep in there often, the thin stone tablet of a book resting on my chest as its magical visions danced through my mind, until the maid discovered me in the morning.
Lost in my thoughts, I almost bump into Clio, her mouth parted in the aftermath of a question. How did I miss her? My senses strain with overload.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
I cross my arms, suddenly feeling the chill. I sway on my feet, the exhaustion washing over me in a wave. “Um, hello.”
The housekeeper’s mouth lifts in a wry smile. “Can I help you find something, my lady? A glass of water, or perhaps your room? You look a bit lost.”
“I was just—” I bite my lip. Do I really expect this strange female to understand my predicament?
Clio’s ears swivel, rotating on their axis. “Just wandering late at night?”
“Library?” I blurt the first word that comes to mind. When she studies my face, I nod, as if that’s what I’ve been looking for all along. “Her Highness requested a bit of light reading.”
Odissa would never be caught dead with a book, but my heart brightens at the thought. Given Coral's fondness for gold foiling and expensive artwork, this palace must have a nice library. Maybe I could sleep there.
Convinced, Clio gestures for me to follow. “This way, then.” She leads me back the way I came, then turns right. I do my best to memorize the path, but my tired brain struggles to keep up. We pass more sconces, more empty halls strung with fabric, art, and flame, then into a large foyer framing two large doors. The detail on the door is elaborate and curving, like waves rolling on the beach. Clio grasps the two golden handles and hauls it open with a grunt.
“Here we are,” she says, waving me inside.
My breath hitches. Three stout staircases reach four levels high in a display of disjointed marble curlicues. The bottom stair starts in the middle of the floor and curls to the left. The second stair connects to the third floor, its base hanging freely like a guppy clinging to a ledge. And the third stair rotates in a slow spiral, suspended mid-air by an invisible string.
The ceiling is a shrunken speck above them, dangling a glass chandelier high overhead, casting the room in a million sparkles of light. Tall rows of shelves form labyrinthine paths through the room, lined with the colorful edges of books. So many books.
Hundreds of books suspend mid-air, the flat stone tablets floating toward various shelves. They wriggle and nestle themselves into the open slots. A low hum permeates the room, spinning a soft melody of magic, emanating from an elderly siren who occupies the front desk. A cloud of white curly hair forms a halo around her face. Glasses perch on her round nose, framing a pair of brown eyes half-obscured by her drooping eyelids. Her mouth parts, letting a soft rhythmic breath pass in and out, maintaining her spell even in her sleepy haze.
“Pearl can help you find a book for Her Highness. Don’t dawdle too long, my lady. We do have that sunrise appointment with the prince.”
The librarian stirs at the sound of Clio’s voice. With a snort, her head snaps up, her eyes flaring wide. Swinging the book she held between pinched fingers, she narrowly avoids shattering the teacup on her desk. Her spell cuts off, and the floating books clatter to the floor. I flinch, waiting for the third stair to fall from severed magic, but it continues its smooth rotation without a hitch. How odd.
Clio leaves me standing before the desk. The librarian rakes her eyes over me from head to toe.
“Oh, Your Highness!” Pearl’s voice rattles with age. She lays a hand on the desk, pushing herself out of her chair to bow at me.
“No, no.” I hurry to correct her. “Just her handmaid.”
Pearl completes her bow anyway, tottering on her feet. She hinges at the waist, and her spine cracks in a symphony of pops. “Well, you look like an Abyssal Princess to me, sweetfish.” She smiles. “Mmm, that face. Just lovely. Like the star in my romance novel.” She gestures with her book. “But she’s from the Brine. Can’t say I’ve read about an Abyssal before.”
“It’s just Enna.” Heat stains my cheeks. “Please sit. I can find my way, certainly.”
Pearl waves off my concern, moving from behind the desk. “Nonsense. I’m already up.”
She’s short. The top of her white hair hardly reaches my chin. I wonder if this is how the prince felt when he walked next to me on the beach today. She clears her throat and begins to hum softly, and the books rise, resuming their slow procession to the shelves.
“No, really, Pearl. Just point me to the romance section, and I’ll be on my way.”
With a jerk of her head, she leads me into the labyrinth of shelves, ignoring my request. I follow, eager to find a place to rest. If I can get the librarian to leave me alone, I could easily curl up at the base of one of these shelves. The floor is clear and cold; nothing I haven’t slept on before.
She points out the sections as we pass: self-help, cooking, mythology, science. At the bottom of the staircase, she pauses, frowns a moment, and then taps the railing two times with her hand. The stair trembles, groaning like a dredgebeast, and with a creak of stone, it swivels. The top of the stair curls, rearranging to curve to the right. With a final groan, it stills.
Pearl slaps the railing again. “Atta boy,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. “Didn’t want to take the long way ’round.”
I test the first step, questioning its stability, but the stairs do not shift again. Pearl’s hand clutches the railing, and she huffs the whole way up, her wobbly knees knocking together.
“It’s an old spell Queen Amura requested. Mischievous little thing, she was.”
The name strikes a bell, but I cannot quite place it. When I don’t answer, she chuckles. “I shouldn’t expect you to know that. Our first queen, she was. And she loved this place most of all.”
She grips the railing as she hoists herself up another step. Slow but steady, she makes the climb, and we arrive at the top.
The second floor looks much the same as the first. More tall shelves. More floating books. I duck my head as one floats past, aimed for a shelf somewhere behind me. I spot a dark section tucked in the far corner. A whitesteel gate seals the entrance to a shadowed room full of thick tomes. I squint into the darkness, then take a step toward it.
Pearl cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “That’s the royal section. Off-limits, I’m afraid. Which is a pity, really. I’d love to get my hands on some of those old books. Now, the romance is just over here.” I follow her, casting a long, curious glance over my shoulder. The darkness beckons me; the only room in this palace that’s dark enough for me to sleep in.
“What’s Her Highness looking for? Contemporary siren romance? Historical? A little dark and kinky, maybe?” The librarian stands in the romance section, plucking tablets from the shelves and tucking them against her stomach.
A smile tugs up the corner of my mouth as she smirks. I like this female. Something about her feels like a home I’ve never had. “I think I can manage from here, thank you.”
She hands me the growing stack of books. “Alrighty,” she says. “Well, give me a shout if you need anything. It’s just you and me in here, so I’m sure I’ll hear you if you holler. The stairs should stay put till you’re done, don’t you worry.” Shooting a wink at me, she waddles back toward the stairs.
Already, I am at ease. Putting the books back, I trail my fingers along the spines, closing my eyes to inhale their warm scent. They smell of stone, sun, and salt. Nothing like the cold tomes in my father’s house.
My finger catches on a spine, and my thumb traces the engraving of the title: A Siren’s Handbook for Keeping House in the Drink .
What’s an Abyssal how-to guide doing among the romance novels? I should show it to Pearl. She’ll know where it goes. I take it from the shelf and tap the tablet’s surface, activating its stored memory. In my mind, visions of the Drink dance in full color as the narrator states a stilted welcome, then begins relaying the steps to seal a watertight door properly.
Nostalgia hits me like a blast of cold water. Suddenly, I’m reeling backward in time. My body shrinks, reality spins, and I’m a guppy hiding in my father’s library, restless and unable to sleep.
I recognize this moment, the smell of the room. Stale. Like the sea has stopped her gills.
I don’t want to see this. Not again.
Sound rises from the hallway, and I flinch, powerless to stop what comes next—a scuffle, a scream, then silence.
I’m ten years old, and my father is dead.