Chapter XIII #2
She laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Eden. You must have made some friends at Spearcrest.”
“I’ll have to think.”
Eleanor is the only one that comes to mind.
I was a social outcast at Spearcrest, a fly on the wall. I spent more time in the library with books than I did with people. It’s embarrassing to reach out to the girls that I met there to ask them to participate in my wedding.
Some of them would say yes, I suppose.
But do I want strangers in my wedding pictures?
“Please get back to me by the end of the day.” Then, it’s like a switch flips and she’s back to being the woman I know.
Not my mother, but Viscountess Evelyn Lockhart.
“Remember that a chance like this doesn’t come around often for a girl like you.
Marrying above your station is more than I ever thought you’d be able to do. Don’t disappoint me.”
Then the line goes dead.
I sit there, numb, for longer than I want to.
When I come to, I’m on the verge of tears and the world seems to be blurring into obscurity, turning into background noise.
It feels like I’m at the edge of a cliff, and if I fall off I’ll never be able to climb back up.
I can’t let myself fall like that again, so I head to the only place left on campus I can find solace.
From the moment I could read, books have been my escape.
Maybe that’s why I feel so safe in the library. It’s sparse since most classes are still in session. And right now, the library is the only place left that doesn’t expect something from me.
The books here don’t care about grades or prayers, they don’t care about what I look like in white lace and satin, wedding planners, or even the blood-stained whispers echoing through Augustine’s corridors. All the library ever asks of me is silence.
Silence is the only thing that doesn’t feel like a lie now.
I slip into my usual corner, tucked between two towering shelves of brittle theology texts and a stuffed raven that watches me like it knows exactly the turmoil beneath my skin.
The sun slants through the stained windows, the sharp, golden rays illuminate the dust floating in the waxy air.
This entire section of the library is beautiful in that lonely, decaying kind of way.
Like something sacred left behind.
I have my books laid out. A tattered volume of Les Misérables, a golden spiral notebook and an assortment of highlighters and fine point gel ink pens. I’ve been scratching symbols, words and little drawings in the margin of each page, like if I ruin enough pages it will fix the hole in my soul.
The assignment is due in two days.
And my partner—well, he’s on some sort of warpath.
I understand why he’s not here.
But it still stings, more than I’d admit to anyone.
Especially after our time in the cemetery when he looked at me like he was already mourning me in a way I would never understand.
Eventually, I skip to the notes I had started writing, the ones we’d worked on together.
I flip the pages, tracing my fingers over the part he had written. I stare at the page for a long time.
It just sits there, like a bruise.
I trace the edge of the page with my thumbs, and I swear pain blooms there too. Everything hurts lately. Everything itches. Like I’m outgrowing my skin but can’t get free.
Footsteps interrupt my spiral.
Light, slow and deliberate.
I don’t look up at first, my heartbeat slowing down when I realize the cadence doesn’t match Silas’ or Lucian’s—then I feel her presence, warm and strange, like a candle burning too close to your thumb.
Lady Agnes Pembroke.
She stands beside the table, holding a worn, dark green book against her like it’s alive. Her hair rests over one shoulder. Agnes is suspiciously quiet today—usually she’s bouncing off the walls and or chatting my ear off about some book.
“I thought of you,” she says, smiling slightly. Her voice is soft, but carries well enough. “This one kept whispering your name to me.”
My stomach dips.
What is she talking about?
Thoughts of the ghosts whispered about in the hallways, whatever possessed Silas that night by the boathouse. I can’t help but be a little suspicious.
“What?” I ask, blinking.
“This book,” she says. “It asked for you.”
She holds it out.
The leather is cracked and fraying at the corners. The gold leaf on the spine is nearly rubbed away, but I can make out the title.
The Blood and the Altar.
It’s not on the syllabus, and I’ve never heard of it.
“I don’t think I’ll have time to read anything extra,” I tell her, gesturing to the books in front of me. “I’m already behind.”
“You’ll find time,” she says. “Books have a way of making themselves known when you need them most.”
And with those words, she sets it down on top of my notes and walks away. No explanation, no questions. Agnes disappears between the stacks of books like a dream I won’t remember right.
I stare at the book.
I don’t want it, but apparently I’m terrible at resisting. I don’t move it either, though. The book just sits there—dark, old and breathing.
When I turn back to the paper, I try to focus on the assigned text.
But the words won’t stay on the page. They smear and twitch. They don’t belong to me. I reread the same passage four times and can’t remember a single word of it. Again, I knead my forehead out of instinct, before remembering just how painful it’s going to be.
I wince, the pen slipping from my fingers and rolls off the table. I duck under to grab it—careful not to hit my head—and when I come back up, the book Agnes gave me seems closer than before.
That’s ridiculous.
Clearly, I’m so tired that I’m unraveling.
I can’t remember the last time I ate. To quiet my thoughts, I stuff the book away in my bag and try to get back in the right frame of mind to tackle this project.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
Silas:
Are you still in the library?
I didn’t tell him where I was.
I don’t reply to his message—instead, I grab my things and shove them into my bag. My heart is pounding now. As stealthily as I can, I slip out the service exit of the library.
My heart is in my throat, because with every step I take the more my throat closes up.
Is this really how my life is going to go?