26
Paper, Honey, and Air
Melody
“We don’t know,” Faye answers my question about what might be deep within the mountain. “As far as I know, no one has ever dared to find out.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “We like to think that, down there, live our protectors.”
I take another look down, but now it’s fallen eerily silent.
“Come now.” She grabs my hand with her delicate one and pulls me onward to an area lined with comfortable chairs and desks and something that looks like a samovar for tea, with beautiful pottery cups, jars with honey, and plates holding lemons lined up next to it.
“A lot of us rarely leave the archives,” she explains, and, indeed, when my eyes adjust to the darkness of this place, I spot more hooded figures sitting at tables or lounging in chairs.
“Us?”
“Oh, the acolytes. I’m not an acolyte yet.
” She takes out a green stone, her fingers brushing over it anxiously.
“I’m a scribe. Only acolytes and scribes are allowed down here.
But all scribes will become acolytes. So, once you become an acolyte, you make a vow not to speak down here.
Ever. I think the magic of your oath won’t let you.
And a lot of them hardly speak at all, even when they leave the archives—which they almost never do, once they’re here long enough, I mean. ”
I frown and really look at her. The age of a fae is impossible to tell. Their auras and maybe their eyes are my only indicators. Hers are so open. Not so hard and ancient but brimming and curious. Like those of my classmates.
“How old are you?” I ask her.
She blushes again, then quickly looks around before she whispers, “I’m twenty-five.”
“Just a little older than me,” I say, surprised.
Her eyes widen, too, as if we both just uncovered a secret. Then she pulls me onward to a desk tucked away between more rows of books, their spines made of cured draconic leather, their pages held together by golden thread.
“I’m the only scribe my age,” she tells me, “and they want me to become an acolyte one day. It’s because of my father. I practically grew up in a library.”
“He was an acolyte?” I ask.
“No. Only women can become acolytes, like the priestesses of the temple. My father was a protector. A paladin.”
“And your mother?”
She shrugs, but the gesture doesn’t match the anxiety in her aura. “I never met my mother. My father said she was a warrior, too wild to be tamed. I like to think that she still lives somewhere out there, in the world.”
“He died?”
“Yes, a while ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nods and quickly lowers her head, a spike of sadness lashing her aura.
“So…you’re a half-blood too?” I ask to change the topic, and also because I’m curious.
Again, she blushes, then bites her lip, her aura lighting up in shame. “Sorry!” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” I know that fae look down on half-breeds, but the way she reacts, it’s as if it’s even worse. More like an insult.
She straightens her shoulders, then gives me a warm smile.
“No worries. No harm in saying it. It’s more like a habit.
And—I guess I am, although I don’t know what my mother is.
” Her smile brightens a little. “I like to think that the world despises us because some of us hold more magic and special talents than even a high fae, and in truth, we’re something they can’t control.
” A shadow crosses her beautiful face. “Sometimes I like to think they fear us.”
My mind drifts to Riven and how he hides his heritage so carefully. He’s a half-blood too. Then I think of myself and my talent for breaking through wards and spells, apparently unheard of among fae.
“What about you?” I ask before I can think better of it. “What special talents do you have?” Her face falls, and I instantly regret it. Damn, I should stop asking so many questions.
“I…I don’t have any inherent magic. I cannot summon even a drop of water, or a spark of fire.” Her voice has gone quiet. “The world’s a hard place for weak fae,” she says finally.
I frown. “But…how is the town? Avandal, I mean. Isn’t it safe?”
She quickly looks down at her feet. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” she admits, avoiding my eyes.
“Why?” I breathe.
“Because I like it down here. I feel safe. And I love books.” Her face lights up at her last words. “I think books saved me more often than any magic could.”
I want to ask more—hells, when was the last time she saw daylight?
But, before I can, she grabs my hand again and pulls me onward toward a section of very large books.
She gently pulls one out. It shivers in her hand, and I suddenly remember how Caryan once held out a book to me the same way.
How it ruffled its pages in my hand like a bird.
How he said that they could get barbaric if someone they despise touches them.
“Careful, they bite,” I joke.
Another laugh escapes the scribe’s delicate throat—a sound like chimes in the wind. Beautiful. A few other acolytes turn our way, their faces shadowed beneath their hoods, but I see the disapproval in their auras.
Again, Faye covers her mouth quickly, her blue eyes large. “Yes, they can. But they love me. Always have. Every book lets me touch it, even the very grumpy ones.”
I look down at the heavy book she’s gently put on the desk in front of us, her fingers carefully stroking its skin. “They have a…character?”
“Oh, they sure do. Some of them are very moody. They hunt the scribes they don’t like, pushing them out of their section. And they sure hate Beeatrisa, but I can’t really blame them for that.”
I look at her incredulously.
“I probably shouldn’t have said that,” she says quickly.
“Oh no, please do. If there’s someone Beeatrisa can’t stand, it’s me.”
“She hates half-bloods in general,” she says quietly.
“Yeah? She’s a racist?”
“Something like that, yes. Ready?”
I nod, and she takes my hand and, as Caryan did once, presents it to the book like you offer your palm to a dog. The book ruffles its pages and then opens.
“Oh, they like you too. I thought this one liked no one but me,” she says kindly. “Can you read it?” Her voice is a whisper again.
I nod as the foreign symbols in the book—intricately shaped by ink and gold and green paint—start to make sense. “Yes, I can.” Well, I wonder whether I will ever get used to that.
“What does it say?” She leans forward, closer to me, her hair brushing my arm.
“It’s about magical classes. In this world and others,” I say, reading the first words on that page.
“Okay, wait! I’ll get some paper. We need to write it down.” She scurries off, only to return with her hands full of carefully pressed sheets and an elegant pen. Two chairs appear out of nowhere, along with two steaming cups of tea. Mine is black with a splash of milk; Faye’s is peppermint.
“Oh, that’s the library. It spoils us all the time,” Faye explains when she notices my wide eyes.
She plops down on one chair. As if on cue, two cinnamon rolls appear on a delicate china plate.
“Oh, I love these! They’re the best! Try and you’ll see.
” She grabs one, holding the other out to me.
A sigh escapes her when she takes a bite, her eyes closed for a moment before they flick to me.
“Isn’t that paradise? Tell me they aren’t better than any you’ve ever tried. ”
“Honestly, I’ve never tried one of those,” I admit shyly.
“They don’t have them in the human world?”
I look away too quickly. “They do. I just never tried them,” I say, careful to keep my voice neutral.
Clearly, I fail, because she asks, “What about chocolate tarte? Or pralines?”
I shake my head, feeling my throat suddenly closing up, without knowing why.
I gently put the bun back on the plate and get up.
Suddenly, it’s too tight down here, as if I can’t breathe.
As if there just isn’t enough oxygen; the space down here feeling oddly hermetic.
At the same time, the walls are closing in again. Like a cell. A prison. A grave.
“I’m sorry. I gotta go. Let’s do this another time,” I say.
I spin on my heel and run, leaving her without another word.
I don’t care about all the curious gazes that follow me—eyes under hoods from women standing between the rows and rows of bookshelves.
I’m certain I’m breaking another protocol that says bolting out of a library is forbidden.
But all I can think of suddenly is air and space and open sky.
I storm toward the metal door. Something in me rises, threatening to boil up and turn the door into dust if it won’t let me out. But it swings open, and I slip through, bolting up the stairs while I shove that force in my veins down, down, down again.
Aris’s roar fills my veins as soon as I’ve reached the top of the stairs and am back in the oval room with the waterfall curtains.
“Where are you? What happened?” He sounds alarmed. I can barely make out his words, he is that furious.
“I’m good!” I assure him, heading for the next door, back to the room where I met Faye.
“Liar. Where are you?”
“Library.”
“What happened?”
“A fucking cinnamon roll happened,” I bite out.
“What?” He sounds confused.
I shake my head as if to clear it. I only stop shaking when I finally reach fresh air and can breathe again, standing on a patio with olive trees in the middle and benches under them. I quickly run on. Outside. I need to be outside—no more walls around me.
Finally, I push through the grand entrance. There must be a meal break, because the space in front of the campus is crowded with students chatting and enjoying the sun. They all stare at me as I bend over, bracing myself on my knees while I try to gulp down precious air.
Embarrassing. So fucking embarrassing.