Chapter 17
Niamh
“Acastle that can’t clean itself isn’t really all that amazing.” Morton huffed, a rag under his wing that he pushed along the ground.
I peeked at Morton over a tower of books I’d just stacked.
We’d spent the last few days sweeping and dusting, and now we were ready to mop the floors, which were actually quite a lovely dark wood underneath all the clutter.
We’d also decided to remove all the books from the shelves so we could repair and clean them—and possibly paint them, though we were divided on that point.
Morton thought painting the wood would ruin it, but I thought it would add fun pops of color to the space.
“Well, it might not clean itself, but it does have a talking painting!” Margaret popped up in one of the paintings behind Morton.
“Oh, I know,” Morton said, his black eyes blinking rapidly.
Margaret had visited every day this past week, and she tended, to, well, talk. A lot.
“Oh.” Margaret snapped her fingers. “We also have Sir Arthur.”
“Who is Sir Arthur?” I asked.
“A knight!” Margaret said. “He lives in the dungeon. I visit him sometimes, but he’s very aggressive.”
I straightened the stack of books as one book flew from its shelf and landed on top, making the pile teeter. “There’s a knight living in the dungeon?”
“Don’t ask,” Morton said out of the side of his mouth. “You’ll learn his entire backstory.”
“Yes! He’s been here for centuries. He’s very brave. It’s too bad he’s stuck down there.”
“Why is he stuck down there?”
“Stop asking follow-up questions.” Morton stopped cleaning the floor and shot me what I deciphered was a glare.
Margaret tapped her chin. “I don’t actually know. He’s just never left. I think it’s because he’s so big and bulky. He is just made of armor.”
“He’s only made of armor?” Morton’s shaggy eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, look who’s asking questions now,” I whispered as I passed him to dust the counter.
“Yes,” Margaret said. “But he doesn’t seem to realize that. We think that armor must’ve belonged to the real Sir Arthur, a hero in his time, and now because of the castle’s magic, the armor has somehow come to life. Kind of like me.” She frowned. “But not as fun to talk to.”
Morton snorted, and I shot him a look to be quiet.
I finished dusting the counter and walked over to one of the bookshelves, piling as many books in my arms as I could. “Well, Morton, I think the castle is amazing. It can make anything inside it magical. Like its hallways or its water pipes or its sconces—”
“Yes, I understand the point.” Morton pushed the rag along. “So why can’t we get one of the magical rags?”
The book stack teetered in my arms and came crashing to the floor, a few of the books flying upward before they hit the ground. It seemed some of the books could fly and others were dormant. At some point, I’d try to figure out why.
“I told you not to try and grab so many,” Morton said.
I knelt to arrange them into a neat stack. “I thought I could make it!”
“That’s what you said the last four times, and yet you’ve dropped every stack.”
I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I don’t think there are any magical rags. There is a magical broom, but when I tried to take it from Cillian’s room, it swatted me.” I narrowed my eyes at the pink bookwyrm. “You know, if you want some magical cleaning supplies, you could go look for them yourself.”
Since we’d found this library five days ago, Morton hadn’t left it, not even to come to our room at bedtime, where I was warm and toasty from the fire godwitch statue.
“I like it here, and I have everything I need. Why leave?”
Margaret hopped into a painting of a field near me, the deep tears in the painting making her form distorted. “By the by, I heard an interesting rumor.”
I stiffened at her tone, wondering exactly who this rumor was about and feeling like I already knew.
“You and the high prince are to be married?” Margaret shrieked. “Why did you let me prattle on like that about him and Ceri the other day?” She brought her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Because we’re not engaged yet,” I said, keeping my voice light and airy. “And I’m not worried about Ceri. That’s the past. I’m the present. It’s really okay, Margaret.”
She slumped. “I just feel so useless in this painting. I want to do something.”
I tapped my chin. Now there was an idea. “Margaret, if we get this library up and running, would you like to work for me?”
She gasped. “A job? You would give me an actual job?”
“You could do story time for the children.” I pointedly ignored Morton shaking his head in protest. “And help find things I need around the castle. You could even teach a class or two about a topic you’re interested in.”
I wasn’t actually sure what Margaret was interested in.
Her eyes sparked with excitement, and she flipped her shiny black hair over her shoulder. “Oh yes, I’d love that. I’m going to go right now and find some cleaning supplies! I won’t let you down!” She dashed out of the painting, disappearing.
Morton twisted his body in my direction. “Are you trying to torture me?”
I arched a brow. “I think you’re being a little hypocritical right now.”
He gasped. “What?”
“All you talked about was how I needed to leave the tower and socialize, and now here you are in a town full of people, and you won’t talk to any of them, including Margaret.”
“I can’t talk to Margaret because I can’t get a word in edgewise.”
I started ticking off my fingers. “You don’t like Margaret.”
“She talks too much!”
“You don’t like Wolfe.”
“Who does?”
“You don’t like Cillian.”
“He’s very arrogant.”
“Morton! You’re being a snob.”
He raised his chin. “No I’m not.”
I shook my finger at him. “If you want this castle to trust us, then you’re going to have to try and come out of your shell a little.”
Morton looked around, his tail curling behind him. “I don’t trust this place yet.”
“Fairwitch got attacked by the brotherhood too,” I said. “I think that at least makes us somewhat on the same side.”
My gaze swept around the room. The bookshelves were now all empty, ready to be cleaned. We were getting there. Slowly but surely.
“This place has secrets,” Morton said. “And until we find them, I’m perfectly content to stay in the library.”
I grabbed a rag and plunged it into a bucket, then marched toward one of the shelves. “What happens when people start visiting the library? Isn’t that the whole point of what we’re doing? So people can check out books and read and learn?” I pressed my hands together, swooning over the idea.
“If anyone can ever find this place. We came upon the library five days ago, and didn’t you just have dinner with Cillian yesterday, and he said he still couldn’t find this room? It’s only appearing for us.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, some of my excitement deflating.
If that was the case, this would all be for nothing.
I loved the library, but I wanted everyone to be able to access it.
I stopped cleaning and set my elbows on the shelves.
What games was this castle playing? Why would it reveal the library only to us and no one else?
“There we go,” Morton said, humming to himself as he inched along the shelf above mine, his rag now covered in dust. “I’ll never have to talk to anyone again.”
“Hypocrite,” I coughed into my rag.
Morton stopped, his shaggy eyebrows drawing together. “I am not a hypocrite. I stand by the fact that you should talk to people. You are people. I am not. I’m a bookwyrm, and I find most people to be wholly annoying.”
“What about me?”
He continued pushing the rag, almost to the end of the shelf. “I said ‘most.’ You are an exception.”
“While I appreciate that”—I put all my weight down on the rag to scrub a particularly stubborn stain—“I think you’re missing out on a lot of experiences.”
“I experience the world through books. Isn’t that what you said in the tower?”
It was hard arguing with a bookwyrm who had read thousands of books and had more knowledge than I could ever hope for tucked into that tiny brain of his.
“I also get to experience the world through you,” Morton said, finally getting to the end of the shelf and breathing heavily. “You still haven’t told me about the training session that almost killed you!”
The stain finally disappeared, and I moved on to cleaning the rest of the shelf as Morton slithered up the bookcase to the top shelf. “It didn’t almost kill me. I passed out from overexertion, but I’m fine now.”
His tongue stuck out and he hissed. “And you say people are trustworthy. That Rafe Wolfgang certainly doesn’t seem trustworthy.”
“He is!” I wasn’t sure why I sounded so defensive, but Morton raised his eyebrows, and I cleared my throat, softening my tone. “He’s a good trainer, and I’m excited to learn from him.”
“You’ve been training with him every day. You come to the library all sweaty, hair a mess, clothes rumpled. What are the two of you doing?”
At that description, an unbidden image flashed in my mind of Wolfe and me tangled in his sheets, his huge body hovering over mine, both of us sweaty, writhing . . .
“Why are you licking your lips like that?” Morton gasped. “Is that barbarian not giving you any water to drink?”
I shook my head, not sure what had just happened. My brain must’ve broken. Morton was right—maybe I was training too much and it was getting in my head.
“Of course he’s giving me water. Let’s just keep cleaning the library, okay?”
Morton peered at me over the shelf with suspicion in his eyes, and I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning until I was so tired I couldn’t summon a single thought, especially not about a certain bodyguard who’d been occupying far too much of my mind lately.