Mortal Fantasy

✴｜chapter twenty-eight

By the time I return to the palace, it is well into the night. It is impossible to think straight, impossible to fathom the notion of sleep; my feet seem to carry me of their own volition to the library, the towering ancient archives of the palace. What am I thinking, coming here? If I mean to distract myself, it is impossible to know why I have chosen a place where the thoughts of Stephen are still vivid in my mind; they are adrift like embers, still alive and feverish and painful, seared into my memory.

Thrill rides up in the base of my stomach as I walk past the guards—will they detain me for roaming alone this late, drag me away by the arms? Some part of me wants them to take me away—to throw me into a prison cell, to lock me up so that I may reach neither the prince nor my dagger. It is wishful thinking, hoping that I can escape this responsibility as if it is a lingering nightmare. As if it will disappear if I ignore it enough, shrivel to dust from lack of attention. A prick of unease lights upon the base of my spine as Meir's voice intrudes upon my reverie, a low murmur in the darkness, dulling away my subconscious chatter like a shard of light through heavy mist.

Ithena.

That single thought is enough to inspire a chill through my bones, as though lines of pure ice have manifested into my flesh. Momentarily I look up, surveying the dimly lit recesses of the library. A few sconces of firelight are scattered at intervals along the walls of the shelves—I move over briskly to one of them, pulling it from its perch, and lift it in front of me as I descend into the row nearest me, my footsteps muted against the carpet. Stephen had said that the library was once a place of congregation for the kingdom's scholars—now the royalty must restrict the access to these archives, where one could find the angels' most ancient scriptures. I have to remember that they were once exploited, for a brief time before the rise of Queen Kalistratus, for their bloodborne gifts and wisdom. Thinking of the monarchy now, torturing and raping humanity into submission, it is difficult to believe that the golden bloods are arisen from the irenic creatures of the Descent.

I slow in front of a particular shelf, my fingers flitting along the books bound in shadow. When I hold the sconce closer, I recognize the books Stephen had displaced to obtain the key to his private room. My hands are clumsy as they part the spines, and then I can see it clearly, glistening in the darkness like a diamond, its shaft half tucked behind a nearby book. I hear my heartbeat in my ears, as if this is something forbidden—it feels wrong being here, touching what Stephen has touched, without him. My throat constricts and I seize the key violently from its place, hastening down the row. If I move fast enough, I can block the thoughts from spilling into my head, suppress the memories as if they are a fine layer of invisible precipitation, like dust or snow, that will alight upon me should I remain still for too long. With an inward shiver I hold the sconce higher, gripping my cloak around me even though it is not cold, and advance further along the vast, seemingly endless looming shelves.

Clearly I had not been paying enough attention to where the room was the last we were here, because it takes me another interminable few minutes of bumbling around to finally locate it in the concealed recess of the library. Taking in a breath, I fit the key into the lock above the door jamb, finding myself surprised when it comes open easily from beneath my fingers. I press the door open and breathe in the soft, papery scent of the room, and the moonlight is a silver sheet laid across the velvet seats by the window, submerging the shelves across the room in argentate shadow.

The kiss with Stephen, this morning in this very room, seems like ages ago. A pang lilts through my body to remember it; not only his wings wrapped around us but the vulnerability of his touch, the sincerity of his words and the urgency of his lips. The recollection is both indelibly surreal and achingly bittersweet. The only opportunity to possibly distract myself presents in the immaculately-kept volumes that line the walls, beckoning to me with their secrets. Perhaps I may discover some weakness of the indomitable golden bloods, some way to defeat them—in any case I am in desperate need to cast away my reminiscent thoughts. It is a rueful hope that I hold, to drown out my heartache in the scripts' deluge of words, but having come here of all places, it is all I can possibly do.