Emille liked words. She liked words in a way that one likes music. She enjoyed the way that they rolled off of her tongue, perfuming the air with meaning. She liked beautiful words, and she liked plain words. She enjoyed words that no one felt the need to use anymore, and the words that everyone suddenly felt the need to use. Words were familiar, comforting. They were both powerful and safe.
That was why Emille felt justified in her dislike of math. Math couldn't create entire worlds and record histories in the way that words could. Emille didn't understand math. It was too cold, too formal. She wanted nothing to do with the stuff.
Groaning, Emille grabbed her eraser and rubbed away the evidence of yet another failed attempt at conquering Statistics. She had never felt less intelligent. She considered going to her professor's office hours, but just the thought of revealing how incredibly bad at math she was brought a fierce blush to her cheeks. No, Emille would find another way. She could do this one simple thing.
Emille let her head fall back against the book shelf that had been supporting her for the entirety of her three hour study session. She wasn't worried about disturbing any other students. No one studied in this dimly lit, dusty part of the library. Moreover, Emille had never seen another student studying within the book shelves themselves rather than at a desk in the common areas. She was completely alone.
The momentum of Emille's frustrated shove against the shelf sent books and dust flying. Emille suppressed a surprised yelp as several ancient books tumbled onto her lap and head.
Ouch. Emille rubbed her head, a bruise likely already forming. She looked down at the culprit behind her concussion: A Practitioner's Guide to the Veiled World. The book had clearly been used and loved for quite some time. The pages were wrinkled and yellowing, with creases where the pages had been dog-eared. Small scraps of paper stuck out from between the pages. Notes? This book seemed quite...personal. It had a history. It did not belong in a library. It belonged in someone's home. Emille pushed the other books off of her lap and opened the book, her interest piqued.
Emille stroked the soft leather binding, noting how the stitching around the borders was neat, but not uniform. Every few stitches were slightly different. Someone had bound this book by hand. The title, too, had a unique font. It was elegant, and deliberate. A small ink smudge adorned a few letters. Hand written?
Eager to see what notes had been left inside, Emille opened the book to a random page. She was immediately struck by its artistry. An anatomical drawing of a butterfly had been painstakingly sketched onto the page in ink. Small arrows pointed to the markings of the butterfly, with unfamiliar words written beside them. The author seemed to have been labelling the butterfly, but Emille didn't recognize the terms. Not that she knew anything about Entomology, but still. These words were both informal and alien. Yellow spots curving around the outside of the wing: Sunlight Concentrate. Splotches of purple and green in the center of the wing: Conscious Slumber. Black markings running alongside the yellow spots on the wing: Focal Point. White smudges near the center of the wing: the balance. The name of the butterfly was written in the same looping font as the title of the book: Evening Swift.
What an unusual name for a butterfly. Emille glanced over at the notes attached to the other page. This handwriting was different. It was messy and scrawling, as if the writer were rushing to get their thoughts down onto the paper. One read: Sunlight concentrate: clears the eyes. Mix with morning mist?
This was making less and less sense to Emille. She pressed on, reading through the other equally confusing notes:
Focal points can be deceptive.
Look into focal point shifts between subspecies
Conscious slumber should be extracted with caution...too much force causes difficulty with return to veiled world
The balance may be used as a buffer
Emille no longer knew what to think. Was this a fictional journal? An early science, like alchemy? She knew two things for sure: this book was handmade, and whoever it was handed to had built upon the knowledge of the author. Perhaps an apprentice? How old was the book, for it to be made during a time of apprentices? Emille checked the inside of the cover for a publication date. Nothing. Except: aha! A name! Or rather, several names.
Arthur J. Coleman
Genevieve Simmons
Fawn Harmon
Peter S. Fedorov
Natalia E. Kershaw-Sanders
Wow. There was more than just one note taker. Upon further inspection, Emille realized how very different the handwriting on the notes were. Emille knew that if she flipped through the pages, she'd find more annotations in different fonts. Although Arthur was not declared the author, she also assumed that he had written the original journal. He was also likely long deceased. Emille scanned the pages, looking for a library stamp. No stamp.
Emille had never stolen a single thing in her entire life. At least, not that she could remember. She had never felt compelled to, and she'd be much too scared to break the rules anyways. And yet, with this aged journal planted firmly in her hands, perhaps generations of relentless study contained within the wilted pages, she knew she had to have it. Something told her that it would not be missed. It was not placed there by the library. Better yet, it was placed there for her.
Anxious determination settling into her stomach like a rock, Emille slipped the journal into her backpack and gathered the rest of her things. She would feel safer once she was back in her dorm, and could study it in true privacy. She quickly stood up, and wound her way through the old bookshelves, towards the library entrance. Past the study area with students typing on laptops and talking in hushed tones, past the information desk with bored employees trying not to doze off, past the library coffee shop handing out steaming beverages to desperate late night studiers. She stepped out into the cool January air, and she knew that she could not turn back. The journal was hers now. She sat down on a bench, and quickly pulled it out of her bag. She flipped it open to the list of names, and hesitated, a pen held in her quivering hands. No, this was right. She knew it was right. Quickly, without giving herself time to change her mind, Emille pushed the tip of her pen to the page.
Arthur J. Coleman
Genevieve Simmons
Fawn Harmon
Peter S. Fedorov
Natalia E. Kershaw-Sanders
Emille Semner
YOU ARE READING
Emille
عاطفية2020: Emille Semner is neither a hero nor a villain. She's a decent student, a good daughter, and a lover of books. That's why, when she spies a spellbook hidden in the depths of the university library and steals it, she is shocked to her core. As s...
