EIGHTEEN #2
“And who is being reminded?”
“Everyone,” he says darkly, but then he shrugs. “Or no one. Sometimes the Stars just like to stir the pot.”
I scowl. “I wish they’d stirred a different pot.”
“Yes.” He manages a tired laugh. “Most people do.”
“I haven’t felt any magic yet,” I confess. “Maybe the magic skipped me.”
Maybe it was all a mistake.
He stares over his glasses at me. “The Kindling can take some time to manifest a single magic. If the Stars have chosen you as a Ravenell, you have access to all magic. I imagine that might take longer.”
So much for wishful thinking.
“So, they just doomed me to this fate on a whim?” That’s less comforting than thinking they did it for a reason.
He murmurs something in the ancient tongue, then translates when he sees my confusion. “The Stars incline us. They do not bind us.”
When I raise a brow, he shrugs, adding, “You’ll figure it out.”
Well, that’s helpful.
“If I find the right book,” I say with a heavy sigh. There are a lot of books in here.
Hadrian snorts. “Knowledge is a dangerous weapon. Wield it wisely.” He glances at me over the rim of his glasses. “And try not to turn it on yourself.”
I came for a book. Now I’m getting a lecture. I might have preferred finding a ghost in the library.
Fuck it. I can’t keep avoiding answers, even if it means asking his grumpy ass, and there is one subject left that might give me an explanation for all of this. “Do you have any books about scions?”
Hadrian freezes. “What do you know about scions?”
“Nothing,” I admit.
He pins me with a look. “That’s not a word you stumble upon.”
I swallow so hard my eyes feel like they’re going to explode.
Must drink less wine during future pity parties.
“Someone mentioned scions. It sounded … important.”
He blinks before shrugging. “No one has written about scions since the Last War.”
“Half these books must be older than that.” I’ve picked up at least six that are in the ancient tongue, and no one’s writing in that dead language these days.
He’s quiet for a beat. “The subject is forbidden. That should tell you enough.”
More forbidden than Ravenell? I can’t quite screw up the courage to ask.
He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his robe. “Who mentioned it?”
“I don’t remember,” I lie. “Probably just gossip in the village. People mixing up fact and fiction.”
“And you believed them,” he scoffs, slightly shaking his head. “That’s all history is: gossip and lies mixed up with facts. We’re just stuck sorting out which is which.”
If anyone even bothers. And why would they, when gossip is currency in Antares and lies are easier than facing the truth? “I feel like no one cares about the facts.”
“Are we still talking about history?” he asks evenly.
“Maybe not,” I admit. “I just wish I knew where I fit in all of this.”
“You think a book will tell you who you are?” he asks.
“I don’t know where else to look.”
“You’re looking in the wrong—” Hadrian cuts off as the library doors swing open and Bishop strides in, boots heavy on the marble, coat buttoned up like armor, hair pulled back but wet as if he’s just stepped through a storm.
There’s stubble shadowing his jaw like he didn’t bother shaving after a late night.
My heart kicks at my ribs as I recall exactly why he was up late.
It’s annoying how good he looks even slightly disheveled.
Bishop stops cold at the sight of me with Hadrian. For a second, I see something in his face—surprise or disapproval, or maybe just his special knack for being perpetually unimpressed. It stings a little after last night.
Although that might just be my wounded pride.
“For the record, your visitor has not destroyed any of the collection today,” Hadrian offers with a meaningful glance in my direction. “That’s more than I can say about whoever was in the Florentia section.”
“I’m not a visitor,” I mutter, but neither is listening.
“Do I need permission to access my own library?” Bishop asks, one eyebrow raised.
“You will if you bleed all over any more of the books.”
It had to be the night I overheard him in the kitchen with Taliesin.
“I’ll do better.” The promise comes out so stiffly, it takes me a moment to realize Bishop is being sincere.
“Next time, get the bandage,” I mutter.
Bishop’s gaze narrows on me, and I wish I could crawl under the table. But before I can lie my way out of the slipup, he says, “I’m leaving in ten minutes.”
Running away again? Surprise, surprise. “And where are you off to this time?”
“Bellatorum,” he says flatly. “You can come.”
I blink. He’s inviting me? “Is this a field trip, or am I being drafted?”
Or are you in the mood to torture both of us?
“Think of it as educational.” He chooses the word carefully.
I snort. “So, you’re planning to shove a sword in my hands?”
“Only if you want to train,” Bishop says with a shrug. “You mentioned that you wanted to go back.”
Something in my chest squeezes. He remembered.
“I do,” I say. “I need to take some writing supplies to Breccan. Paper and pens. He’s trying to learn his alphabet.”
Bishop nods. “Supplies are in my study. It’s the first door on the right. Try the top drawer in my desk. It’s unlocked now,” he says, and I realize he knows I tried to get into the western wing again.
Heat floods my cheeks. Fucking Stars, he probably thinks I was there to throw myself at him.
“Ten minutes,” he repeats, “or I’m leaving without you.”
It will take me five minutes just to get all the way to that side of the house. I race out of the library to his family’s wing.
I can’t stop myself from checking for the book I saw last night despite my hurry. But it’s nowhere to be found in the sitting room, so I continue down the hall.
His study is a surprise. I expected it to be cold and severe, all business, like the man who uses it, full of weapons and secret files.
But while those are here—swords racked over the mantel, a trio of battered ledgers stacked on the window ledge, even a dagger stuck point-down into the desk itself—there are also signs of life.
A half-eaten apple on a plate, a mug with a ring of coffee clinging to the bottom, a chessboard frozen mid-game.
Dialing on the desk lamp, I peek in the top drawer to find a stack of folders with some type of travel log on top.
Dates. Locations. Short entries written in the same tight hand as the notes I saw last night.
But there are no writing supplies. I reach for the stack as Bishop appears in the doorway. “Wrong drawer.”
Startled, I slam it shut and open the other to find a few notebooks, loose sheets of paper, pens, and ink. “Sorry.” I gather as much as I can carry. “I didn’t want you to leave without me.”
His mouth quirks. It’s not quite a smile but not a threat, either. “Ready?”
We’re halfway down the stairs when I realize what I saw in that not-quite-smile. Bishop was pleased—which irritates me more than it should. Apparently, I’m the only one who feels awkward about last night.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Hadrian?” I ask as we reach the landing.
He hesitates. “My uncle keeps to the library when he visits.”
My stomach drops at his lie. Hadrian told me he was a friend of the family. But I don’t call Bishop out. Obviously, he won’t tell me the truth. “He visits just for the books?”
“He’s helping me with some … research.” He shuffles us toward the great room. “We should take the postern.”
The bastard knows how to distract me.
“I’ll walk.” He gives me an incredulous look, but I shrug. “I know the way. Through the haunted garden, over the death-trap bridge, and head straight into the heart of your childhood trauma.”
He snorts, which is probably the closest to a laugh that I’m getting out of him today. “If we walk, we’ll both be soaked, and the paper will be ruined.”
And we’ll have to endure each other’s presence after the embarrassing finale to last night’s bonding exercises. Somehow, that idea sounds even worse than the postern.
“Fine,” I say, tucking the writing supplies into my jacket to protect them. “Torture me.”
“Your sacrifice is noted,” he says, leading me into the great room.
“We’re allowed to use this one today?” I ask as he walks toward the wall we came through the first day we arrived.
He sketches a pattern, and an arch shimmers to life. “Consider it a perk of spending time with me.”
“This isn’t the way to bribe me,” I warn him as I approach it.
He rolls his eyes, grabs my hand, and drags me through. When he doesn’t let go, the full-body shiver that crests over my skin has nothing to do with the cold.
The postern delivers us directly into the corridor of the Commons, which is teeming with people wearing stiffly starched uniforms. Most of them look anxious or, at the very least, curious. Bishop drops my hand and quickly puts distance between us as he tugs on a pair of gloves.
“New conscripts coming in for orientation,” he explains, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I should, uh …”
“Don’t worry about me.” I cross my arms and force a smile despite the lingering thud in my forehead. At least the hangover is a reminder why I should ignore any and all full-body sensations this man produces in me.
His forehead creases as he gazes down at me. “Arden.” He hesitates before continuing gruffly. “We can walk back after … since you won’t have paper to keep dry.”
But I’ve learned my lesson. Now I just have to pass the follow-up test.
“Whatever.” I wave him away. “Go play soldier.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but I walk away before he can.
Breccan is in one of the study rooms, huddled at the edge of a table too big for his small body.
He’s surrounded by older kids, most of them ignoring him, but his eyes are fixed on a battered notebook so full of scribbles that he’s drawing in the margins.
The moment he spots me, he jumps up, knocking it onto the ground, and rushes over.
“You came back,” he whispers like my arrival is a big secret.
I can’t help smiling. “I told you I would.”
“Did you bring …?” He squirms like he’s nervous to ask.