Ink scents the air as Cyrus sways closer, brow furrowed. “Did you talk to my father before coming here?”
“We had our meeting.”
“What did he ask you to do?”
I resist flinching. His tone isn’t accusing, but I sense another question lurking beneath. “Nothing. I only gave him updates. I had a lot of readings this week.”
“You should know that my father may reward loyalty, but he has none himself.”
Is that a threat or—he couldn’t be trying towarnme? “He’s theking.Weallhave to be loyal.”
Cyrus doesn’t answer immediately, his chest rising and falling behind his gauzy tunic. “Some are more loyal than others.”
My lips pinch as he retreats into his study, the slouch of his body indicating he’s done humoring my presence. No matter how often we genuinely try to make amends, it always comes back to this: a trade of trust that neither of us is willing to give first.
“Cyrus,” I say, knowing it’ll be futile.
He shuts the door.
My next few nights of sleep are less jarring, filled with the kinds of visions I’ve had my whole life. I dream of pastoral scenes—homes warm with supper, herders chatting in languages I don’t understand, tusked beasts of burden roaming shrubby hills. This morning, I wake from a dream of a journey at sea that must have happened long ago, on the decks of a massive, shallow ship with a construction unlike any of our current vessels.
In more leisurely times, I might try to figure out exactly what era I saw, whether the ship had Auvenese or Yuenen origins or maybe even that of a collapsed culture that weonly have relics of; there are rumors of a third continent on the other side of the world. I may not act humble before the courtly folk, but the breadth of my visions subdues me into a speck. We don’t realize the scope of what we don’t know. What lies on the deep-sea floor or in the ether between stars? Even the heart of the Fairywood, so close to us, remains uncharted.
Right now, I only have one dream I want to decipher. The dream I had about Cyrus wasn’t like my usual visions, nor quite like the dreams that other people have. It feltmadefor me. The setting didn’t seem real, but it might have been based on something real, like the Fairywood.
That’s where I’ll start searching for answers.
My tower has been open for over two straight weeks, and the patrons have finally winnowed enough for me to take a free day. I head into the palace library without the fuss of my robe and gloves, spinning in light summer wear: a creamy blouse with a wide lace neckline and a skirt striped with silver threads cinched high on my waist.
The stacks are dizzying in all directions, nearly as tall as the arched ceiling. I choose an aisle where I once spent an afternoon reading about Fairywood botany and prowl from ladder to ladder, peering at spines. There are mostly folktales and medicine books. A few thick tomes on cultivation of fayflowers are well-worn.
A leather book embellished with gold script catches my eye:Traditions & Magics of the Wood.I slide it out and flip it open. Thank gods—diagrams. Some of these books have tiny squashed text that may as well be pages of solid ink.
“Violet?”
Below, Dante is peering around the corner, looking neat in his vest and bow tie. An emerald teardrop dangles from his left ear and scruff feathers his chin, grown out for the ball. He thinks it makes him look roguish; I think he looks like an overworked student who forgot to shave.
“Need assistance?” he asks.
Where to begin that isn’tMy dreams are threatening meorIf either Cyrus or I had to die, who would you miss more? This isn’t a rhetorical question.
“No, I’m all right,” I say. Tucking the book under my arm, I slide down the ladder.
“Traditions & Magics?”He points at it. “That’s an old one—should still be helpful, though. The previous Balican archivist translated it, so they wouldn’t have skipped over the best bits.”
“The best bits?”
“You know, the commentary. The reasons why we do things the way we do.” Ever the scholar. “Everything the head Auvenese archivist translates from Balica reads like a how-to manual, and it’s a shame.”
I follow Dante out of the stacks to the study tables, where a blackboard is scrawled with his messy handwriting.
“By the way, has Camilla been in?” he asks.
In addition to archivist work, he also tutors the princess twice a week—hypothetically, anyway. She usually skips. “Haven’t seen her. Probably busy with herMasked Menagerie.Everyone is.” Flopping into a chair, I dangle my arms over the sides, grousing, “It’s ridiculous. I got a patron twodays agoliterallyfoaming. She drank these drafts some peddler claimed would make her more alluring, only they missed mentioning they’d make her alluring toflies.”
Wiping down a side of the blackboard, Dante turns a history of borderland disputes into chalk dust. “You don’t often get a chance to become queen. May as well give it your best shot, even if that chance is slim.”
“Knife-slim. It’s not worth the energy, let alone your pride. Don’t get me started on the ones who are actually in love with Cyrus. They don’t know what he’s like at all.” Toying with the fluffy end of a quill, I deflate farther into my seat. “He’s still being a wart. Doesn’t want my help unless I grovel. Couldn’t you convince him to give me a chance?”
