Chapter Eighteen
I’ve found something.
The other Grimmstones have handed me text after text in ancient Aragoise, asking me to translate each one.
I don’t know how many the Crypt has—hundreds, maybe thousands.
And while I’m translating, I’m searching anxiously for the words I think will lead Roze and me where we need to go next—words like: magic, Castelle, meigas, King Alexandre, armistice …
peace … war. After hours of work, I’m staring at a manuscript—a fraction of a fraction of a manuscript, really.
It’s hardly bigger than the palm of my hand, and the coloring tells me that this particular piece of parchment was washed of its original text and reprinted at least once.
The letters are faded, with ghosts of a previous text blurring their edges.
There are no indications of authorship, but my guess is that it must have been written by another meiga also searching for the Book of Odds, because in ancient Aragoise, it reads,
—A lifetime of searching did not yield Oras’s book—
—Yet I found that ancient answerer—
—it showed me a portion of the Book of Odds in its crafty face—
Something that was able to reveal the Book of Odds, but wasn’t the Book of Odds? Below, almost too small to see, is the smallest emblem, and yet, it’s unmistakable. A dragon, like in the crest of Castelle, same as on the book the professor gave me.
My hands tremble as I stare down at the paper. A half-hysterical chuckle escapes my throat. Roze notices my sudden excitement from where he’s doing his own research across the room, and he comes to peer over my shoulder.
“They’re connected, Roze,” I whisper, showing him my translation. “Castelle, the Book of Odds, and your father’s death. They’re connected.”
I feel his breath on my neck. “It seems they are.”
I want to stay and research all night. I want to comb through the Crypt until I’ve found every last bit of possible evidence that could lead us to the Book of Odds or to some connection between King Alexandre and Castelle.
And that’s to say nothing of learning everything I can about my magic.
I will sacrifice sleep and food. I’ll live off tepid mushroom tea and the delicious smell of old parchment.
With so little time left, what could be more important?
We’re so close to giving Roze an answer about his father’s death.
And once we do, this can all be over. Our bargain with the Queen will be complete.
But at nearly two in the morning, Roze convinces me to abandon my research for the night and return to Berlaise.
“It’ll still be here in the morning, Sinclair,” he drawls, dragging me away.
“Maybe your father found something in the Crypt,” I tell him on the way back to Berlaise.
Pieces of a puzzle are locking into place, an explanation forming in my mind as my pace quickens with my thoughts.
“Something dangerous. What if he found the Book of Odds? I suppose it would still need to be translated. He’d need Professor Borges for that.
But once it was, we’d be able to understand all the runes.
And we’d know how they made the Mists vanish before—perhaps be able to do so again.
At least that’s the theory. So that begs the question, who benefits from keeping the Mists around?
Who would want to keep Aragoa imprisoned like this and would silence your father to do it? ”
“Are you going to pause for a response, or could I be adequately replaced with a houseplant for you to talk to?”
“Hush,” I say, thinking aloud. “Castelle. It must be Castelle, Roze. Who else could benefit from the state Aragoa is in? Which means there must be a spy. Someone inside the castle is loyal to Castelle.” I look up at him with wide eyes. “Saints.”
He blinks.
“I found a silver stake in the drawer of Professor Borges’s desk. It had a dragon emblem carved into it—very similar to the one in the crest.”
“And now she’s disappeared,” he says. His eyes go cold.
Guilt burns my chest as I realize what conclusion he’s drawn. “We can’t make assumptions,” I say gently.
“You all but said she’s a spy for Castelle.”
“That’s a theory. I know Professor Borges.
She’s been my mentor for years and has dedicated her life to finding out how to vanquish the Mists.
It doesn’t make sense for her to want to keep things as they are.
And really—her, an assassin?” But as much as I try to give him reasons to doubt, the more it sinks in for me—Professor Borges is an obvious culprit.
An answer, staring us in the face. We’d be fools not to pursue it.
Roze is staring off into the darkness of the hall, that familiar darkness in his eyes, like he can’t even hear me. I can see the fury written on his features, the hunger for retribution.
I step toward him, and since I can’t touch his face, I curl my fist in his shirt, drawing his attention back to me. Silver eyes meet mine.
“Promise me you’re not going to hunt her down and do something awful. Not before we know more.”
The cold anger in his face fractures just a bit. “Fine. I won’t hurt her. But we do need to find her.”
“Agreed.”
I unbutton my dress, letting it crumple on the floor, and fall into bed without bothering to prepare for sleep.
I’m somehow exhausted and wide awake at the same time, the residue of adrenaline from the dance, the Queen’s death, and the Grimmstones still coursing through my system as I wrap myself in my covers and stare up at the canopy of my bed while Waffles nuzzles into my hair, clearly relieved that I’m back under his supervision.
There will be so much to face in the morning. How many people know that Roze was the last person to see the Queen? If he’s executed for it, will my neck be next?
He and I are twisted up together in this. As much as I would like to put distance between myself and Roze, the more I pull away, the closer he gets. Like a parasite. Like an obsession.
An obsession because, as I lie in my bed trying to fall asleep, I can’t stop staring at the golden stars that speckle the canopy fabric of my bed, thinking about every moment with him—the heat in my bones, the residue of every brush of poisoned skin, a dark longing that I don’t want to look at too closely.
Saints below, that almost-kiss … Even with the barest brush of skin, I could tell how soft his lips were, taste the desire on them.
I clinch my eyes shut at the thought, trying to remember that I should be thinking about Kole as I fall asleep, not Roze.
I need to remember that I loathe him … but I don’t anymore, do I?
That defense was shockingly, terrifyingly easy to crumple.
I am only now coming to terms with an uncomfortable fact—that Roze has occupied my thoughts for far longer than I want to admit.
I once told myself that it was because he was cruel and horrible.
But when I think about the time I’ve spent hating him and the passion with which I’ve hated, it doesn’t make sense.
My contempt is all tangled up in thoughts of the way his hair falls across his forehead, the proud bearing of his shoulders, and the heady feeling that overcomes me when he’s near.
He’d loathe you all the more if he knew everything, my conscience whispers.
I wipe a hand over my face in the dark. I so badly want to talk to Cerise.
Normally, she would be the one to force me to talk through my confused feelings.
She’s so good at getting me to talk about things—boys, stress, the awful years in the orphanage, my parents—when I would much rather talk about declensions and verb conjugations.
Saints, I took that stubborn prying for granted.
But I can’t talk to her. The farther she is away from me, the safer she is.
With a huff, I throw back my coverlet, causing Waffles to grunt and kick in his sleep.
Despite the late hour, I know sleep isn’t going to come.
My theory about Professor Borges is buzzing in my brain.
I don’t want it to be her … but we need answers.
We’ve spent three days of seven. There are four thorns left.
Four thorns before I—or Roze—or both of us—face certain death.
A knot forms in my throat, and I shut my eyes.
I was so afraid Roze would sacrifice me to save himself.
He killed his mother, and I was once more convinced he was the villain.
But now … I can’t stand the thought of his death.
Not after everything—the things we’ve shared, the way he tried to protect me. I can’t be responsible for his death.
I open my eyes and blink away wetness. I won’t let myself lose it now—I have to stay focused.
I reach over to my bedside table and retrieve the book Professor Borges gave me from the drawer—the Book of Castelle, I’ve decided to call it, after the very illegal dragon emblem on the front.
I run my hand over the intertwined dragon and lion, following the turn of the dragon’s tail.
I flip open its pages, checking for the millionth time for any mark.
Blank. As expected.
I let it shut and hold it to my chest. What would someone want with a blank book? Unless …
Unless it’s not really blank. Unless I just can’t see what’s written.
I sit up straight in bed. “I have to talk to Cerise,” I say out loud to myself.
Charging out of bed, I slip on my robe and my slippers. Yes, involving her is risky, but she might be the only one who can help me, the only one who could save me, save Roze … It’s worth the risk. Besides, no one wants Cerise dead. I’ll ask her for this one favor. She’ll be fine.
Moments later, I’m at Cerise’s door, and I knock, quietly at first. There’s no answer, so I knock louder. “Cerise?”
I hear a groan and a smattering of vulgarities from inside. Moments later, the door opens, and Cerise’s tired eyes appear in the crack.
“Who izit?” she mumbles. “Oh. Hi.” Her eyes are cold, but not as cold as I’d expected. I take it as a good sign.