Fae.
Beveled and black, imprinted into the leather beneath golden filigree, the word almost whispers to me, sending a chill down my spine.
There’s a chain strapped to the front of the shelf, but it’s drooping and loose. I glance around as if the shadows are watching me, but all is silent other than my thrumming pulse. Careful not to jostle the chains or leave tracks in the dust, I lift the small book out. The moment I hold it in my hands, my fingers tingle.
Barely longer than my palm, the cover is made of elderwood, with a delicate coating of red leather stitched around the tops of the boards, and thick thread pulled through the timeworn pages binds it.
For a moment, all I can do is stare at it. I have never, in all my time in Orea, seen a single book of the fae. To my knowledge, every piece of literature made by or about fae has been destroyed since the war. The only time fae are ever mentioned is in the history books, depicted as great betrayers and bloodthirsty murderers.
This book is forbidden. It should’ve been burned centuries ago, and yet here it is, stuffed between decrepit history books and rolled scrolls, on a dusty, chain-locked shelf.
Looking left and right again, I make sure I have no witnesses as I slip it beneath my coat and tuck it into the inside pocket against my chest. I stand up again, my heart pounding like stalking footsteps.
Wait. No. Those are actual footsteps.
Shit.
I dash to the right and take a sharp turn, pressing my back against the side of the shelf. A second later, I hear someone in the next aisle over walking with slow, sweeping steps.
Time to go.
Clutching my skirts with both hands, I lift the hem up completely, my ribbons coiling beneath my coat. I’m too nervous to even breathe, but I tip toe away past the shelves, cringing every time my shoes scrape too loudly against the stone floor.
I can’t go back the way I came, not with that person so close. So I put as much distance between us as I can as I navigate through the cryptic room.
When I see more light ahead, I aim for it, hoping that it will lead to another way out. I cut down an aisle of shelves, and when I come out on the other side, I find tables with books and scrolls laid out and lanterns burning. But my eyes go right past them to the door directly ahead.
Thank Divine.
I rush forward, except in my hurry, I fail to notice the hunched over figure sitting at one of the tables, quill in hand. His head whips up just as I pass him, and the movement makes me jolt in surprise. “Oh, shit,” I curse in alarm. “Sorry.”
The old robed man is on his feet in an instant, his chair screeching against the floor as he pushes up. “Who let you in here? You don’t have permission to be here!” he seethes.
“Sorry,” I say again, backing up with my hands held in front of me. “I, um, I wanted to make an appointment to visit the library,” I say lamely.
The man’s deep set eyes sweep over me with narrowed contempt. “I know who you are.”
“Right,” I say, not at all interested to hear an eighty-year-old man call me a gilded whore. “So…an appointment?”
“No.”
I blink at him. Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
“No?” I ask.
“Nobles are allowed to make appointments,” he informs me, his tone as stiff as his straw-colored hair. “All others are not welcome inside the royal library. Since you are clearly neither noble nor royal, you are not permitted entry.”
“But—”
“We have scrolls in here that date back to dark years. We have books written by the first kings. I have personally been transcribing an account of Saint Bosef during the Poppy Plague,” he informs me, chest puffed up with importance. “Now, this may come as a shock to you, but despite your nickname, this library is far more precious than you are,” he says scathingly. “So kindly remove yourself from my presence and do not think of entering again, because you are not welcome here. Return yourself to the saddle wing where you belong.”
I stare, stunned and still. I never imagined a scribe could make me feel as inferior and undeserving as a speck of dust.
His gaze drops to my coat, and instantly, the blood drains from my face. The stolen book in my pocket seems to grow heavier, tapping against my heart.
Is there an outline clearly visible? I don’t dare look down, but when he raises a hand and points at me with an ink-stained finger, my stomach falls right through my feet. I’m not even allowed to stand in the library. What’s going to happen to me for trying to steal a forbidden book?
“Do I need to call the guards to remove you?”