Chapter 13 Raven
Raven
Virtus tentamine gaudet.
(Courage rejoices in challenges.)
—Latin proverb
As I shelve another book at the Rosette, sliding it into the gap between two faded leather tomes, I tremble with the memory of Atticus’s lips on mine, kissing me, his warm hands on my back as my hand slipped into his pants.
I’m dizzy, as if the wine is still flowing in my veins, Atticus’s lips gliding over mine, the two of us a mess of entangled limbs.
But then he pushed me away. Went to his bedroom and slammed the door.
I’d wanted to blame the wine, to say it was a mistake, and salvage what remained between us, but it would have been a lie.
A lie to save our friendship, but a lie all the same.
Then this morning, when I finally rallied to talk to him, he had gone to work before I even woke up.
He obviously hates me. What now? And what about Dorian?
What would he say if I told him? Would Atticus tell him?
All I have now is my own shame and hours of silent work in the library feeling sorry for myself.
“Hey, Raven.” Aspen’s friendly voice cuts through my thoughts like a silver blade. I startle, turning on him, and Aspen holds up his hands. “Whoa, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I laugh, knowing I must look silly, jumping for no reason, my heart thumping like a fist against my chest. “It’s okay,” I say, a little breathless. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Apologies,” he says, glancing at the stack of books that still needs to be shelved. “Do you need any help?” He appears concerned.
“No, I’m okay. Thank you, though.”
“Anytime,” he says, his gaze tender and warm. I’m reminded of the way Atticus looked at me last night. Before he stopped what he’d started. Ugh.
“I actually wanted to ask you something,” I say.
The way Aspen’s face lights up with expectation makes me rush to say, “Do you know where I can find any information about a former student named Adelina? Could be from a long time ago.”
That wasn’t the question he wanted me to ask, and he tries to hide his disappointment with a curious tilt of his head. “Adelina Ward?”
My heart hammers. I never doubted Dorian’s vision, but now it feels real. “Yeah, maybe! Do you know about her?”
“I remember seeing the name way back when I was starting out here and we were collating some old records. I think she came from some big donor family. Why do you ask?”
I can’t let him know about Dorian, so I lie. I’m doing that a lot lately. “A student was asking at the circulation desk. I think for a family tree project or something.”
Aspen seems to buy the lie. “Well, don’t let me stop you. I may be well-versed in the archive, but I’m not all-knowing. Maybe try the alumni records, see if you can find her there.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks,” I say, hoping he’ll depart, but he doesn’t budge.
Aspen only smiles, then he steps in closer to me. He glances around, checking if anyone is nearby. “You know, I had a really nice time with you the other night,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Here’s this guy who actually likes me, who’s showing genuine interest in me, and all I can think about is Atticus—someone I can’t be with. What is wrong with me?
When I don’t reply immediately, Aspen continues awkwardly, his voice cracking. “And I really thought about what you said, about the protesters and doing the right thing in the face of injustice.”
“Yeah?” I say.
“Sure,” he says. “You’re right, I was being defeatist.”
“Glad to hear that.” I’m happy to have the subject changed. I know Aspen means well, and I feel like I’m cruel for using him. He left his key chain on the desk this morning, and I slipped the stolen key back into place easily. Will I ruin the one good thing I have left?
“I care,” he says, “so of course I listen.” He looks at me bashfully, his brow furrowed. “Listen, before I get back to work, I was wondering if you wanted to come to a party with me.”
“A party?” It hadn’t occurred to me that we’d hang out a second time.
“It’s nothing formal. You can invite some friends if you want. It’s a Halloween party thrown by St. Adolphus Hall.”
“What’s that?”
“Sort of a secret society. Like Skull and Bones at Yale or the Sphinx at Dartmouth. I know it sounds snotty, but we do know how to have a good time.”
“Am I allowed?” I ask. “I’m not a student.”
“I’m a member. It’s just a party, and you’re my guest. I want you to be there. All you need is the password.” He draws an X in the air with his finger. It lingers, glowing like embers from a long-dead fire. “Omnes una manet nox. ‘One night—’ ”
“ ‘Awaits everyone,’ ” I finish for him, knowing the phrase without needing my magic. “Horace the poet.”
He raises an impressed eyebrow and laughs. “Of course you’d know. You’re incredible. So is that a yes?”
I chew on my lip, debating. I don’t want to lead him on too much, but…what’s the harm? Atticus and Dorian would die to go, and we are here to learn and to experience all that Sibylline has to offer. I’d be selfish not to invite them to come with me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m happy to go…with you.”
Aspen grins for an instant, then he catches himself, as if embarrassed to show his emotions. “Awesome. I mean, good. I can’t wait. Oh, and it’s a masquerade, masks required, so be prepared. Come dressed for the Carnevale.”
“Got it.” My parents used to go to Save Venice parties all the time.
Humming quietly, Aspen leaves, but not without looking over his shoulder at me as he goes. One last glance.
I finish shelving the books on my cart, then make my way to the catalog room.
It’s almost empty. My Mary Janes click noisily on the marble floor, echoing as I walk down rows of cabinets that stretch ten feet overhead.
The white ceilings glow orange in the soft candlelight of the chandeliers, and the cabinets are made of polished oak stained dark with weathered brass plates attached to every drawer, the knobs sagging with age, the wood worn smooth by human hands.
There are thousands of drawers, and I guess it’ll take some time finding Adelina’s alumni record, but my work is done and I am mostly alone.
There’s only one other person in the room, another archivist, standing atop a rickety stepladder, a drawer pulled out, flipping through the yellowed cards nestled inside it.
I search for any record that includes the last name Ward, or Warde, or any other phonetic variation, but come up short. I can’t find any proof that someone named Adelina Ward went to Sibylline.
Weird. Don’t big donors love having their names plastered everywhere they send money to? I’m left wondering if this is just a dead end, but then I think maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. What about student papers?
The student archive is a slightly less formal space than the primary atrium.
It’s small compared to the main archive, with only a few cabinets full of notable student papers.
Sibylline loves to keep records of its students’ work.
And, just like I hoped, I find a listing for an undergraduate thesis by a student named A.
L. Ward. It’s a treatise published in 1924.
The card claims it is a paper outlining the summoning of matter from chaos. This is her. It has to be.
I check the shelves to read her completed treatise but come up empty-handed. I search the surrounding shelves and double-check, just to be sure I didn’t miss it.
Nothing.
It seems like the paper no longer exists.
I make my way back to the circulation desk to see if I can track down the paper in some other way, but I find its section of the library is roped off.
Inside the roped area, an instructor speaks in hushed tones, conducting what appears to be a class involving several of the library’s texts.
The books are chained to heavy wooden desks, preventing them from wandering, like Aspen told me they could.
The teacher is lecturing in the middle of the library instead of some classroom.
It’s amazing, the lengths this school will go to in order to keep the knowledge in their books locked tight and secure.
“Enunciation is key,” the teacher says, walking down the row of seated students. “Any slight variation in accent or intonation can lead to improper results.”
I wonder, once more, if I might have made some small error in either one when I called the lightning, mispronouncing a word or maybe even just a syllable.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have made such a mess.
I don’t know, and hearing the professor talk about the very subject that concerns me makes me more jealous of the students than ever.
I wish I could try it again. My fingers itch to do it. I know I hurt Dorian, but I want to make fire again. I want to be better. I know I can be better. Sure, I might make little mistakes along the way, but it’s what we came here for, isn’t it? To use our power?
A small voice in the back of my mind wonders if that’s true. Is setting one of your best friends on fire a “little mistake”? But I don’t listen to it.
I have power, and I can prove it. I need to.
Instead of going back to my desk, like I should, I stop and listen, watching as the students practice repetition and spell construction.
I open my journal, thinking I might jot down a few notes, but a gust of wind kicks up, fluttering the book’s pages.
I slap my hand down to stop it, before realizing how strange that is. Wind indoors?
I glance toward the class. A gentle breeze ruffles everyone’s hair and clothing. At the center of it all, a girl leans over her own book, chanting an incantation. All at once, I understand the words. I know she’s speaking in Mesopotamian, and I translate in my head.
“—call forth thee, in thy name, to manifest, in form, and freedom—”