Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AGNES
Bookkeeper.
Like, obviously. Of course it made sense.
I’d been assisting the Order since Sophie had come to town and we’d hit the ground running to make an actual change in helping with the Kelpies at the loch.
But this felt different. It was real in a way that was much more formal, like I was actually a part of it, and it echoed what Liora had said about there being a thread that connected me.
I was a part of all of this. Or, at least, my family had once been.
Until Isobel Wright had managed to destroy it somehow.
I stifled a yawn and reached for the next stack of documents, determined to find something—anything—that might explain what she’d done. But before my fingers touched the paper, movement caught my eye.
I froze.
“I swear to the goddess, Clyde, if you jump out at me again,” I warned.
The room was silent, aside from the low hum of radiators creaking.
Had I imagined something?
A soft rustle sounded. Like pages turning.
I stood slowly, grabbing the nearest heavy object—a brass paperweight shaped like a thistle—and crept toward the shelves. I held my breath. This was how people died in horror films, wasn’t it? Investigating strange noises in empty rooms in a castle?
Another rustle sounded and I drew closer.
I raised the paperweight, ready to brain whatever creature was lurking in the stacks, and then I rounded the corner.
A tiny serpentine head poked out from between two leather-bound volumes, regarding me with eyes that glowed faintly gold. The creature was perhaps about four inches long and its body was made of gorgeous luminescent scales that glimmered and shifted colors in the soft light.
My breath caught.
It looked like a tiny dragon.
Almost what I imagined the Beithir would look like, if it ever fully left the water.
“What the—”
“About time,” a voice said. It had a smoky undertone, as though its words were lightly singed, and I blinked. I heard his voice in my head. It was dry, slightly irritated, and distinctly male. “It’s taken you a while, hasn’t it then?”
I stared at the creature. The creature stared back.
“Did I just hear you? In my head?”
“Obviously.” The little serpentine dragon slithered fully out from the shelf and curled on top of a stack of documents, tucking his tiny wings back, and looked up at me with an expression that could only be described as unimpressed.
“You can put down the thistle, by the way. I’m hardly going to attack you. I’m yours, after all.”
“Mine?” I asked, staring at the creature because my tired brain, quite simply, could not keep up with what was happening.
“Aye, lass. Your familiar. Magickal companion. Assistant, even? If one must submit me to such a lowly label.” He flicked his tail, the light rippling across his scales. “Truly, did your grandmother teach you nothing?”
“My grandmother taught me how to organize a card catalog and make a proper cup of tea. She failed to mention a wee talking dragon.”
“I’m a book wyrm, if we’re being technical, not a dragon. There’s a difference.” He sounded offended. “Dragons hoard gold while I hoard knowledge. Far more valuable, in my opinion.”
I lowered the paperweight slowly, my brain struggling to catch up. A book wyrm. My familiar.
Of course. I mean, why not? At this point, what was one more incredible thing?
“Do you have a name?” I asked, feeling incredibly awkward around this tiny, magnificent beastie.
“Quilliam.”
I blinked. “Quilliam?”
“Is there an echo in here? Yes. Quilliam. It’s a perfectly dignified name. It’s not like Agnes is the most original name in the world.”
“I never said it wasn’t dignified.” I bit back a smile as I held up my hands. It seemed the book wyrm was a bit tetchy about his name. “And it seems you already know my name.”
“Aye, Agnes Wright, of the Wright Bookkeepers. I know your name and those before you. I’ve been waiting for you. Are you going to finally step into your role?”
“I … I only just discovered it. Like … minutes ago,” I said, a bit defensively.
“And yet you’re still standing here. Holding a paperweight over your head.”
“Well, excuse me if you surprised me. Have you considered a less sinister way of approaching people?” I grumbled, lowering my arm.
Quilliam uncoiled himself and slithered up the nearest shelf with surprising speed, then launched himself at me.
I yelped and stumbled backward, but he didn’t attack. He simply landed on my shoulder, and I could just barely feel the weight of him. If I turned my head, just so, I could see him peering up at me with glimmering opal eyes.
“Was that any better?”
“I mean, not really, no. Generally speaking, flying at people’s faces doesn’t always end well. Just be happy I didn’t skelp you into the next room.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to hit me.” Quilliam’s voice was smug and I sighed.
“What am I supposed to do with you, exactly?”
“I think it is more … what am I supposed to do with you? We’re supposed to get you to join the Order, lass. Let’s crack on, shall we?”
“Och, it’s just as simple as that? I just discovered the Bookkeeper is an official role, and poof! Now I’m an Order member?”
“Not until you go through the ritual, but, aye, lass. That’s the way of it. Surely you can’t think there’s time to be wasting mulling over should you or shouldn’t you? This is the role you were born for, Agnes Wright, so are you going to step into it or not?”
I peered down at the tiny dragon on my shoulder, well, what I could see of him, and gave a small shake of my head.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“And you overthink things. It’s a typical human trait, and I must say, mildly annoying.”
I had the sudden, overwhelming urge to laugh. Here I was, exhausted, reeling from discovering my family’s secret history, with a sarcastic book wyrm pattering at me on my shoulder.
Gran would have loved this.
The thought hit me unexpectedly, and my eyes heated. Gran would have loved Quilliam. She would have fed him tea and asked him a thousand questions and probably knitted him a tiny sweater.
“I wish Gran would have met you,” I said, surprised that she hadn’t. Why hadn’t he been her familiar? Maybe she would have found answers.
“Your grandmother was a good woman,” Quilliam said, his voice gentler now. “I watched her, when she visited the archives. She didn’t know about me—couldn’t see me, the way you can—but I could tell she was searching. Looking for answers she couldn’t quite find.”
“She knew something was wrong with our family. She just didn’t know how to fix it.”
“But now we can figure it out … together.”
I took a moment to properly store the documents that needed protection and then gathered my things and headed for the door. Quilliam shifted on my shoulder, his scaly body surprisingly warm against my neck.
“How come I can see you and Gran couldn’t?”
“Because you’re the one,” he said simply.
“The next Bookkeeper. Your grandmother carried the bloodline, but she never stepped into the role. She didn’t want to join the Order.
The magick stayed dormant in her. And your mum was too blinded by grief to pick up the burden.
But you...” He trailed off meaningfully.
It appeared my wee book wyrm enjoyed a dramatic pause.
“I what?”
“You’re different. The Stone has been calling to you for years. Haven’t you felt it? That pull toward Loren Brae? That need to stay close to the castle and the old records?”
I paused.
I had felt it. I’d always assumed it was just my love of history and my academic nature. But there had been something more, hadn’t there? A tug in my chest whenever I got too far from the village.
“So I’m supposed to be The Bookkeeper. Like capitalized and official title and all that?
And I choose the role?” I was a touch surprised it hadn’t gone to my gran, though I could understand why the opportunity had blown right past my mum.
I loved her, goodness did I love the woman, but her grief had walled her off from taking any risks again.
“Aye, lass. But it’s all about choices, isn’t it? That’s the way of life. The magick calls to you, but you have to answer.” Quilliam’s tail flicked against my collarbone. “The question is … will you?”
I mean, I had to, right? I was in this, had been in this, for a while now. It had never ever occurred to me that it was possible for me to just walk away from Loren Brae, not in her time of need.
And the village needed me. So did my friends.
And so did Graham.
And maybe, just maybe, I needed to show myself that I wouldn’t follow in my mum’s footsteps and do nothing to change the outcome. Sure, we’d been dealt a bad hand, but that didn’t mean I had to ignore my responsibilities. Or simply leave.
I followed the sound of voices and music until I found Sophie arguing with Lachlan about the correct cheese topping for a deli sandwich—Swiss, apparently—while Hilda and Archie sat by the fire.
“Och, Agnes! You’re still here. I thought you left with Graham.” Hilda stood, jumping into mothering mode. “Can I put the kettle on for you?”
“No, well, aye.” There was just something about a good cup of tea that settled the soul. “But first…”
I pointed at my shoulder and everyone in the room froze.
Quilliam flew from my shoulder and landed on the coffee table in front of where Sophie and Lachlan were sitting and gave a sweeping bow.
Sir Buster threw back his head and howled.
“I do so love a dramatic entrance.” Quilliam sighed.
“What in the…”
“Is that a book wyrm?” Hilda came forward, tea forgotten.
“Full marks to our castle keeper,” Quilliam said, though of course only I could hear him. “Tell her I said hello. And that her cataloging system is adequate, though she misfiled the 1623 land surveys.”
“He says hello,” I translated. “And that you misfiled the 1623 land surveys.”
Hilda’s hand flew to her chest. “He can speak?”
“In my head, apparently. His name is Quilliam.”
“It’s you, isn’t it, then?” Archie, a gruff man with a shock of white hair, bushy eyebrows, and kind eyes, asked.
“You what?” Sophie whirled, looking between Archie and me.