Chapter 54
The journey back to Sattoriya is long and grueling, and thoughts of Nyk plague me every step of the way.
How is he? Is he in pain? Is he hungry?
How will he manage if he cannot take blood from me? Will he grow weaker?
The more I think about it, the closer I come to despair. With Lis gone, there is no one I can turn to, is there?
Think, Moe, think.
What else can be done?
The answer comes to me after hours of walking on foot, when I finally return to Nyk’s house at the edge of Sartoriya. I rush to the library, gather every book on law I can find, and begin tearing through them.
That male, Baine, said Nyk would stand trial for his offense, and that the Lord Supreme is personally invested in the case.
In a way, that is better. His family should not be able to interfere too much—or do things clandestinely just to hurt him.
And if this is an official trial, he will be allowed to defend himself.
I skim every legal volume in Nyk’s library, and though there is little on the legality of cultivation or the registry, I do find something that might help.
One book on family law states that when a spouse has been accused of a crime and incarcerated, the other spouse automatically gains control over everything—not just the finances, but power of attorney as well.
Anticipation builds inside me. The issue is proving we are spouses when we never had a legally binding ceremony…
I keep reading.
The book states that most marriages are recognized only if filed with the Central Government. However…
My heart stills in my chest.
There is a footnote. Small script, barely perceptible.
It says that in ancient times, the custom was for spouses to share blood and consummate their union before the marriage was considered valid. Therefore, in a legal context, so long as both parties vow to the Seven that they fulfilled those two conditions, their marriage is recognized.
Could it be…?
I swallow hard. If I have power of attorney, then I can find someone to represent him legally at trial.
Yes. I can actually help him.
But just as excitement surges through me, reality crashes down again. To hire an attorney, I need money. A lot of money.
I still have some left in my room, but I do not know if it will be enough.
Closing my eyes, I massage my temples.
Ways of making money… ways of making money…
No job would pay me enough except…
My eyes snap open and land on the small bag I have been carrying with me all along.
The notebooks.
An idea sparks. I glance at the clock and see it is only noon—the stores have not closed yet.
Carefully selecting only the relevant notebooks, I bathe and make myself presentable before heading to the Mortal District.
To my luck, the one tending the counter is none other than Grigo, the owner of the bookshop. He is a kind older male in his sixties who deals in every sort of book, from antiques to fresh new fiction. He knows the trends and chases them relentlessly.
His brows rise in surprise when he sees me.
“Miss Moe? What a surprise!” He jumps from his seat and hurries toward me. “It’s been so long, I did not think I would ever see you again.”
His eyes drift to my bag, and his expression turns covetous.
“Don’t tell me you’ve brought me the tenth volume? Everyone has been asking for it! The last one sold out everywhere! I tried to get in touch with you at your last address, but your parents said you’d left.”
“Yeah, well…” I shift awkwardly. “It’s a long story. Unfortunately, I don’t have the tenth volume. I haven’t had time to work on it. I have something else, though.”
His eyes sparkle with curiosity.
“Come. Let’s head to the back.”
We descend a narrow wooden staircase into the basement of the bookshop. Even more books line the walls here—a reader’s paradise. I used to imagine that if I ever made enough money, I would buy myself a room just like this, shelves overflowing with books.
Well, that never materialized. Years later, I am still poor—perhaps even poorer now that my husband is just as destitute.
Yet as I look upon those endless rows of books, I do not feel the same jealousy I once did.
I do not feel that sharp, immediate want.
Not because I love books any less, but because my satisfaction comes from somewhere entirely different now.
He leads me to his worktable. “Show me.”
I remove the notebooks from my bag and spread them across the table. Twelve of them—twelve volumes.
He picks up the first and begins flipping through it, skimming passages here and there.
“It’s about a girl who loves books so much that one day she wakes up inside her favorite novel.
She thinks it’s the adventure of a lifetime, but the characters of the book are not who she expected them to be.
The heroes she worshipped are frauds. The world she longed to lose herself in is the worst place imaginable.
But just when she thinks she’s going to die, the villain of the story saves her—and they fall in love,” I explain breathlessly.
I am so full of excitement at finally being able to talk about my beloved story that I fail to notice his frown at first. Or the purse of his lips.
“What do you think?” I whisper.
“I’m not going to lie to you, Miss Moe. You’re a great writer. People love The Adventures of Hippo. It’s my best-selling series. But the trends are shifting. I don’t see a future for this.”
I gasp.
“Now, please, it’s not that your idea isn’t good. In fact, ten years ago this would have flown off the shelves. But romance isn’t that sought after anymore. Not with a villain, especially. I’m afraid the market, as it stands now, simply isn’t suitable for this.”
Something inside me dies—not because he is saying my story is not good, but because this was the last resort I had to make money.
“I—” I swallow. “I can write The Adventures of Hippo. How soon do you need it? If I start today, I can have the next volume in two weeks,” I say hurriedly.
“Miss Moe…”
“Please, Mr. Grigo. I really need the money.”
He strokes his chin pensively as he looks down at the manuscripts again, then releases a tired breath.
“The market right now wants adventure, but the focus is generally on multiple main characters instead of just one. I’ve read some passages. The worldbuilding is strong. I love the feel of Akkaya. It’s just that…”
“Yes?”
“Here.” He points to a passage about the Five Mages of Akkaya. “What if these were the protagonists?”
“But…” I bite my lip.
“Since this would require serious rewrites, I won’t be able to pay you as much. But I think we can make a deal for all of these.”
“Who will do the rewrites?”
“I have an intern who is excellent with current trends. He’ll know what works best—tropes and all that.”
“I see…”
“Since I know you, and we’ve worked together before, I’ll pay upfront for all of them.”
“How much?” I whisper, even as the thought of selling my story only for it to be butchered threatens to make me ill.
But the sum he names is not negligible. In fact, it may very well be the difference between life and death for Nykander.
“I’ll take it,” I say, and sign away the rights to a small part of my soul.
At least I will be able to help my love. That is all that matters. More book ideas will come to me—that is what I tell myself as I reluctantly leave the notebooks behind.
If I have one regret, it is that I never shared the original story with Nyk. I promised he could read it when I was done, and now that promise will have to be broken.
But he will understand. He always understands.
So why do I still feel so empty, even when my pockets are full?