Chapter 13
Pure magic greeted me through the open doors. A wide solarium encompassing a vast library rivaled by none. Three-fourths of the walls—reinforced by brick panels—sat encased by gold-paned windows glittering in the gray light of a cloudy day.
“The school was built around it years ago,” Celine explained at my side, “to preserve the structure and all its knowledge. Go on, explore at your leisure.”
“It’s incredible,” I breathed.
My boots clacked against the cobblestone path as I wound my way through square plots of grass and beheld the dainty willow trees planted within each.
They moved in an invisible wind the same way the willow in my dreams did, the motion making me sway in time.
I dragged my fingers through their smooth leaves as I drifted ever closer to the sound of running water ahead.
At the library’s center, a stone fountain held dominion over the entire space.
A woman—though not entirely human—rested on bent knee atop a bricked pond, lily pads dotting the surface.
“Who is she?” I asked, studying the fountain. Hair strewn about her face, the woman reached a hand down to eye level, five brilliant stones shining in her palm.
“The Alchemist: the mother of magic,” Celine said. “She holds what some claim to be the five talismans of affinity: tourmaline, quartz, moonstone, opal, and moldavite.”
Five? But Cillian had only mentioned four.
I rubbed the black stone in the statue’s palm and my mind reeled back to Cillian’s burning constellations in the sky.
Tourmaline: the same as both Fhírinne’s door and his talisman.
My finger brushed across the other crystals, stopping over the cloudy green stone near the Alchemist’s wrist: moldavite.
My stomach soured on contact, knees growing weak in the very same way they had when I’d touched that cursed dream stone tucked away in my bedside table.
“Moldavite is an ancient tektite, molten space glass, and it is not for the faint of heart,” she said ominously. “I recommend limiting your exposure until you’re in a place where you are willing to accept the rapid change it presents. Few have mastered its power.”
My attention drifted to Celine, and I found an almost expectant expression on her face.
Did she know? About Cillian and his abilities?
About the dreams and the evil stone? She’s not ready for this, she’d said outside my door.
Ready for what? I waited for the hyperventilation to set in, for the panic to bubble up in me like a rising tide. But it never came.
“It’s silly, really,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “Everyone knows magic doesn’t exist, right? Though, one might argue knowledge is a type of magic.”
“Right …” I eyed her as she drifted about the willows, and a strange wave of bravery washed over me. Before I had the opportunity to second guess myself and decide on a different course, I burst out, “What am I not ready for?”
She spun around. “What?”
“Earlier, when you and Cillian were outside my door, you said I wasn’t ready. What am I not ready for?”
“Oh, that.” Her face softened. “I simply meant that this is all new to you still: life here at the institute, the program, new people, and a new way of life. I wanted to remind Cillian that you needed time to adjust to how we work here at Saint Peter’s, that’s all.”
“And the part about me being different this time?” I reeled internally at the taste of confrontation on my tongue. Normally I’d have stuffed my questions down, but something about Fhírinne made me feel … brave. Like I was safe to speak my mind within its walls.
She placed a hand on my shoulder. “You must have misheard. He said things were different this time, given you were a special case surrounding late enrollment.”
Duh. That makes way better sense.
“Oh, okay.” How ridiculous—me thinking there was somehow more to it, that she knew about the dreams and the stone. Of course she didn’t. She was just a concerned director who wanted me to adjust without outside pressure. “Well, thank you for looking out for me.”
Her smile widened. “Always.”
It was then I realized my eyes hadn’t darted from hers a single time throughout my questioning.
I’d had a normal conversation without any anxious interruption whatsoever.
I scanned my palms, then the room: the willow branch I’d mindlessly locked my fingers around, the golden glimmer on the propped window pane, the aroma of soil and old tomes, the water’s flow in the fountain …
touch, see, smell, hear. Fhírinne, it—it ticked every box needed to ground me, to still the chaos which so often churned beneath the surface.
An oasis. A grin gripped my cheeks. “I think I’ll stay here a while, if that’s okay? ”
“Stay as long as you’d like, but please do lock up when you finish.” She smiled, set the key in my hands, and started toward the giant doors. “Should you enjoy your time, maybe we ought to discuss a curator position as your volunteer work here at Saint Peter’s.”
“I’d like that.” With a nod, the room was mine.
I wasted no time and started toward the ivy-riddled bookshelves to my right.
Countless classics, old census logs, almanacs, and encyclopedias all lined the ten-foot-tall bookshelves packed into the rounded walls.
Like a dome of knowledge, the top shelves were only reachable by a built-in rolling ladder.
The thought of climbing up, frankly, scared the ever-loving-crap out of me—heights had never been my thing—so I stuck to the ones I could reach without taking my feet off solid ground.
For the first time in forever, I took my time.
Aimlessly wandered from book to book, soaking in however much I wanted and feeling no guilt in placing the book back on the shelf when I realized it wasn’t of interest. I’m not sure how long I spent doing that, exploring at my leisure.
Fhírinne had this timeless feel to it, as if the outside world could wait a little longer.
When the sun’s shadows had traveled from the left to the righthand side of the room, I knew afternoon had crept up on me.
I’d meandered through the history shelves and spent a good chunk of time perusing old science books written when the world was still thought to be flat.
Eventually I wandered from my seat beneath a willow adjacent the fountain and placed my most recent read back on the shelf.
My eye caught on a small inconsistency in the ivy-covered walls, its branches protruding more than the rest. That’s strange …
One limb after the next, I peeled the ivy away, when a buzz started in my ears similar to the sound of Cillian’s magic, but gentler somehow.
The closer I drew to whatever lay hidden beneath, the stronger the buzz grew, until finally the last vine fell away to reveal a small cabinet no wider than my arms could spread.
“Well, aren’t you a curious sight,” I whispered.
Gold-finished handles dinged by dust called to me, practically begging me to open it.
I tugged, but the doors held firm. Locked.
I remembered the skeleton key Celine had left in my possession, unsure it would work, but still my fingers dug around in my pocket.
I came back with the crooked little key, pressed it into the lock, and a satisfying click reverberated up at me as I twisted. A rush ran through me.
The contents proved even more interesting than I’d anticipated, a vast array of well-worn leather books in various colors, shapes, and sizes staring back at me.
I ran a hand across their titleless spines, the slick texture sending a spark up my fingers.
Stuffed in the top left corner, one specific cover caught my attention.
Leather casing lackluster in comparison to the others, it had unique humility about it.
And what, pray tell, are you? Right before my eyes, the dainty tome scooted forward on the shelf.
“Oh shit!” I jumped back and bit my lip, my hand frozen in midair.
But, to my surprise, I wasn’t afraid, more so shocked.
Not even a shiver, just pure, unaltered curiosity.
I snatched it, trotted back over to my bench like an excavator ready to unearth a forgotten history, and popped open the cover.
Handwriting, bold and somewhat messy, read: Property of Margaret Wright. My index finger slid across the divots in the letters. A journal. I flipped to the next page; the first entry header was written three times bigger than the swirly bits of text below it:
August 19, 1883
A ghastly vision has claimed me, seized me in its grip.
I dare not mix these visions, these feelings with those from my previous journal.
It feels so … so wrong to overshadow what once were brilliant dreams, hopes, with this …
this filth. Now it seems I have neither dreams nor hopes, so I will let them lie.
Wish that one day they might come to chase these looming shadows from my mind. But darkness chose me.
I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t do much of anything.
Father says I’ve been visited by the devil and summoned Minister Davies to pray over me that I might rediscover a sound mind.
I pretend for his sake that it worked; that the light he so wishes to fill me with has taken root.
Deep down however, I fear he knows the truth.
I am but a woken nightmare. A plague upon this earth. I fear this darkness inside of me will eat me whole, swallow me up until there is nothing left but the glare of those red eyes, nothing but teeth. Nothing but horrors.
Red eyes. Teeth. Red eyes. Teeth. Red eyes. Teeth—
My gaze trickled down the page, the same three words repeated over and over, each new repetition pushed harder into the pages. One full page, then two. By the third, the words were more holes than ink. I slapped the book shut and swallowed against my dry tongue.
“Welp, that’s enough reading for today.” I set the journal on the walkway.