Of Whispers and Daggers ✓ [TLRQ #2]

Chapter 25.2 - Leavi

"What is it, sir?" My cheeks feel hot, and I hope it doesn't show.

He's at his counter near the stairs, mixing up medicines. "Elénna was busy with another patient. I was just hoping you could grab me some salt from the cabinet."

"Of course, Illesiarr." As I fetch it for him, Jacin's steps thud down the stairs. I pretend to search the cabinet until the door swings shut behind him. "Here you are." I set the jar beside him.

Quietly, Illesiarr says, "I don't want that man here again."

I glance up at him, startled, but Illesiarr just keeps grinding his mixture.

"I don't think that will be a problem, sir."

"Very good." He nods, his wrinkled face creasing in some inscrutable, final expression.

"I think I'm off to bed now. Unless you need anything else."

"No, m'dear. Sleep well."

Upstairs, I curl into my blankets but can't fall asleep. Wide awake forever later, I close my eyes and picture myself curled up in my father's armchair, a worn book in my hands and a warm fire before me. His fingers clack at the keys of his presswrite, their steady rhythm lulling. Finally, somewhere between the imagining and the reminiscing, I drop off.

The click of the presswrite calls to me in my sleep, weaving in and out of my dreams. It has a certain rhythm to it that's unmistakable, not just a constant word after word, but a one, two, three, four, like music. I follow it, dancing through mind and memory to find the source of the sound.

When my dance ends, I find myself staring down at Sean Rahkifellar.

Surprise floods me. "I never noticed before."

He jumps, but his fingers slowly finish out their rhythm. "So you're back." He's still staring at his presswrite.

I nod, but there's a heady nothingness to the movement, like trying to shift a limb when it's numb. "You're a musician, aren't you? One, two, three, four. A beat."

"Not exactly. But if you're in my head you should understand."

"I'm not in your head." Something rings in my mind, someone else's voice, blurred by the vague fingers of memory. Some rare magicians... "I'm above you."

Sean looks up, around. He scoffs and looks back down, his eyes having never landed on me.

Because I'm not really here.

That sparks my memory like light springing up in darkness. "I cast a spell. Without meaning to. Without speaking. I'm here, Sean. I'm real, and you're real, and you were really typing..." The more reality brightens my mind, the more this scene slips from my grasp. "I'm in Morineaux," I rush. "I made it to the castle. Are you—"