Chapter 11
My fingers cling to the edge of the door as if it’s the last lifeline I have, because maybe it is.
If I let go, if I drift even a little too far inside…
that means I’ve truly done it. Defied Luceran Frostwyn again.
There will be no denying it, no pretending I stumbled or got lost or followed a sprite by accident.
So I keep one hand rooted to the wood and squeeze my eyes shut.
If I can’t see the forbidden room, then maybe I haven’t technically broken the rules yet. Maybe I can tell myself I only stepped inside to… grab the sprite. Rescue the sprite. Something.
Gods, I am being ridiculous.
I take another small step, stretching my arm so far behind me that my shoulder aches. Only my fingertips graze the door now. One more step and I will lose it entirely.
My heart thunders so loudly I swear it echoes off the walls. What am I doing? Nothing in this room could possibly be worth provoking more of his wrath.
Just one look. Then I will leave. No harm done.
I open my eyes slowly, cautiously, a squint at a time. Then wider. Wider still, until the cold air stings them.
My jaw drops.
It is not a torture chamber or a crypt or some Fae vault of horrors.
It is a library.
A colossal, two-storied library rises before me, crowned by a domed ceiling glazed with snow and frosted stained-glass windows lining the walls. Shelves tower to impossible heights, row upon row upon row, so many they disappear into shadow.
Thousands of books.
Ancient tomes sag beneath layers of dust. Others are swollen with frost, their pages curled stiff as bark. Cobwebs drape between the shelves like silver thread, and a few books lie sprawled across the floor, half-buried in snow that drifted in long ago.
The room feels untouched, abandoned, forgotten, as though no one has crossed this threshold in decades, perhaps centuries.
And my heart aches.
Because this room is everything I once dreamed of, a treasure trove of stories. A world of words.
I release the door. It closes behind me with a soft thud.
There is no turning back now.
I take my time pacing the rows, moving slowly so I don’t disturb the fragile hush of this place. I wipe dust from the spines as I go, revealing titles one by one, and with each new book I feel my excitement grow and grow until it spills out of me in a breathless grin.
Soon I’m carefully taking them from the shelves as if I’ve stumbled into a marketplace filled entirely with my favorite things. I stack them in my arms, awkward and heavy, but I don’t care. I giggle every time I discover another treasure.
Yes, there are tomes on science, on alchemy, on agriculture and animal husbandry. Practical things. Sensible things.
But there are also books about pirates, mermaids, winged horses and heartbreak and fated lovers.
Just seeing the titles makes my mind itch with longing. With hunger. If I cracked open any of these right now, I know I’d fall straight into their worlds and never want to climb out again.
A whisper cuts through my delight.
I glance down the row and see the sprite hovering at the end, eyes gleaming, tiny hands curling toward itself in a gesture that is unmistakable.
It wants me to follow.
My arms are full of books, my common sense buried somewhere under them… but I follow anyway. I could be walking into a trap, into some new danger I won’t escape, but I don’t believe that. Not with these creatures.
I think they’re as lonely here as I am.
When I reach the end of the row, I peek around the corner with one eye open, just in case I was wrong to trust them. Just in case this is another mistake to add to the growing list.
But nothing terrifying waits for me.
Instead, I find the sprite tossing broken pieces of a collapsed bookshelf into the mouth of a fireplace tucked away in a quiet, shadowed corner of the library.
The space around it steals my breath.
Bookshelves arc around a central circle, cradling a wide, faded rug whose kaleidoscope of warm colors has dulled with time.
A wooden table sits nearby, vines and leaves carved into its edges.
Smaller tables are scattered throughout the space, and I cannot help imagining what once adorned them.
A vase of roses. A fern reaching toward a stray sunbeam. A steaming cup of tea left to cool.
And directly before the snow-dusted fireplace sits a wing-backed chair.
Massive and plush, once rich plum and embroidered with golden baroque swirls, now reduced to the ghost of its former color. A matching footstool waits at its base, the stuffing uneven, the fabric damp and cold beneath the frost.
I can’t hide my smile. I don’t want to.
The sprite keeps tossing broken boards into the hearth, muttering furiously to itself as each scrap clatters onto the pile.
Then I hear the familiar flutter of wings and glance over my shoulder.
The second sprite has joined us, though it lurks behind a bookshelf, peeking around the corner with exaggerated caution.
I smile and give a small nod.
Apparently that’s all it needs. It zips past me in a blur of shimmering wings and immediately joins its companion, where the two of them launch into an argument. If I had to guess, they’re debating the proper way to build a fire. Judging by all the frantic gestures, neither agrees with the other.
While they bicker, I set my books on the carved table beside the chair and shrug off my heavy coat. I drape it over the seat, a soft barrier between me and the damp cushion, then curl myself into it, snuggling against the warm fur collar.
A sharp hiss splits the air followed by a loud pop.
Both sprites shriek and hurl themselves away from the hearth just as a brilliant fire roars to life.
One sprite’s wing is smoldering, a tiny flame licking at the edge, and it flaps in a wild panic while the other blows desperately, cheeks puffed, until at last a gust of icy breath snuffs the fire out.
When the crisis is over, they flutter back toward me, landing primly on the edge of the chair as if nothing had happened.
I let out a long, grateful breath.
Warmth from the hearth stretches across the room in slow, creeping waves until it reaches my legs dangling over the edge of the chair. My body melts into the cushion, softening in a way I haven’t felt in weeks.
I reach for one of the books on the table. I don’t care which. It doesn’t matter. Any of them will be perfect. Each one is a door to somewhere else, and I am starving for the escape.
Delicately, I pry the pages apart. They cling a little from age and frost, but they relent without tearing. Thank the gods. Damaging a book feels like a sin worthy of the Aurevault.
Then, with my boots propped on the footstool and the sprites perched on either side of me, I sink deeper into the chair and start to read.
I devour the first book.
A pair of childhood friends swept across the sea on a whirlwind adventure who not only discover that the legends of old are real… but that they have loved each other all along. I inhale it in a single sitting, then reach greedily for the next.
A prince bewitched by a mermaid, giving up everything—his crown, his breath, his world—to join her beneath the waves.
Then another: a kingdom fractured, a magical horse born once every thousand years, and two rivals who discover unity and love through the battle to ride it.
Each story more wonderful than the last. Each one unlike anything I’ve ever been able to read back home. I want more. I want all of them. I want to stay here forever.
But “forever” lasts only a few hours.
The fire’s warmth spreads through me, loosening the knots in my shoulders.
My coat is soft beneath me, the chair plush and enveloping, the room impossibly cozy despite the frost gathering on the dome overhead.
Even the sprites have curled up on the armrests, fast asleep, their tiny snores vibrating like a pair of contented cats.
I try…truly try…to keep my eyes open. To fight the heaviness tugging at my eyelids. I tell myself I cannot stay here, not really, not without risking everything.
But the heat is soothing, the quiet absolute, and the book in my hands grows heavier by the second.
My grip loosens. The book slips against my chest.
My head tips to the side as the firelight blurs, stretching into ribbons of gold.
And before I can stop it, I’m asleep.
In my dreams, I hear muffled voices.
Shapeless at first. Indistinguishable echoes drifting in and out, rising and falling in strange pitches. But slowly they begin to sharpen. The tones separate. One is deep, booming, unmistakably male. The other softer, higher, but equally furious.
The haze of sleep thins, and the sounds become words.
“Stay calm, Luceran,” the female voice says sternly. “She did not know.”
“She was told,” he thunders, voice like grinding stone. “But she did not listen! She never listens! What use is a servant who refuses to obey?”
Then a low sound, half-groan, half-snarl, rips from him, followed by a hiss of breath between clenched teeth, as if he’s fighting some hidden pain.
“Luceran, please.” Her voice tightens. “You’ll make yourself unwell if you do not calm down.”
My eyes flutter open.
The last threads of sleep fall away, and I find myself still curled in the library chair, the book splayed open across my chest. The fire has burned down to faint orange embers. The sprites who’d shared the chair are gone.
But Luceran and Atilia are there, only a few paces away, their gazes fixed on me.
I don’t know why the first thing I notice is Atilia’s hand pressed to his chest, as if that tiny body could restrain a male like him. As if her touch alone could tame him. But the sight punches something sharp and unwelcome through my ribs.
I jolt upright in the chair, fumbling to push my arms through my coat sleeves.
“My lord,” I stammer. “I’m sorry. I…I got lost. I didn’t…”
“Enough!” he roars.