Page 88 of Harbinger

No, because it was the fucking book he took that day in Wintour and shoved into his cloak. Likely the same one he told Taliesin about in the kitchen—the night his friend proposed murdering me.

Last night, I’d traced an S and a C … for scions. The book was in his wing the entire time. This is what I get for drinking so much starsdamned wine. Whatever he’s hiding, I can’t shake the feeling it has something to do with why the stars cursed me with Ravenell magic. That’s why he took the book from me.

Maybe he isn’t trying to help me at all.

Maybe that’s why he called me a temptation and hid behind his title and vow.

Or maybe he’s just as fucking confused as I am, too busy wrestling his own demons.

Regardless, I can’t trust him. No matter how kind he is or what he’s given up for the people in his charge.

He’s a Marius, and I am … not. I can’t forget that.

I creep to the western wing, my headache now feeling like fitting punishment for my multiple lapses in judgment. But it’s locked. Maybe Bishop is regretting his choices, too.

So, I head to the next best thing. The library that I’ve been avoiding like a coward since I thought I saw a ghost. The idea seems almost laughable now. Bishop has one forbidden book. There are probably others. Ones about whatever secrets he’s keeping, and probably plenty about Ravenell. Lenora either didn’t know where to look or wouldn’t touch them.

That’s why I was scared away from the library, and I can’t keep letting fear make choices for me.

I need answers about the mark the Stars branded me with before it’s too late, even if I haven’t felt the tiniest tingle of magic stirring in my blood yet. Some nights I lie awake, taking inventory of my own body, terrified I might find it. Magic has never skipped a member of the Icaros bloodline. I’d be the first. That thought used to scare me, but with Ravenell’s mark on my chest …

I have to know what I’m up against. I push open the door with more force than necessary. It swings wide open, and I stop in my tracks.

The library might as well be a cathedral. But not one dedicated to the worship of the Stars. Nope, this place is all about the books. Three stories rise toward a stained glass dome, each floor filled with shelves, and every inch of those crammed with books bound in leather and cloth. Wide balconies ring the upper levels, connected by a spiral staircase carved from mahogany. The windows are also stained glass, each panel depicting a different constellation. Light pours through them, dappling the main floor’s reading tables and benches in blue and gold and crimson. Leather chairs are stationed around the perimeter, their high winged backs ideal for settling in with a book. At the far end, another cavernous fireplace hosts faintly smoldering logs. Even the air smells of ink and old paper.

I step inside, pulling the door closed behind me. The silence feels sacred. I half expect the Stars to smite me for even breathing in here.

Circling the first level, I eye the spines on display. Most are records, military treatises, collections of laws and judgments. The kind of books that Lenora brought me. The next section is labeled with engraved brass plaques. There are ones for philosophy, geography, even nochtimetry. I start with that section. The shelves are meticulously organized, each book lined up like a good little soldier, exactly where it’s supposed to be alphabetically. I run my finger along them, searching for anything out of place. In Wintour, I only glimpsed the book he stole. Only caught those two letters in the title: S and C. Now I know the rest of the title, and I’m hoping the library can tell me what it means.

I select a volume at random. The cover is black, embossed with a pattern of crossed swords and stars. The title is in the ancient tongue, which I can’t read. Thankfully, the rest of the text and the inscribed dedication inside are not.

For the House of Marius—that the past is neither forgotten nor repeated.

Not exactly a sentimental gift.

I flip through the pages, finding them dense with diagrams and footnotes. The text focuses mostly on the ethics of nochtimetry in warcraft. Yawning, I slide it back into place and move on.

The next shelf down is stranger. The books are smaller, some barely larger than my palm. Some have plain, unmarked covers. Others have handwritten titles dashed in illegible scrawl. I flip one open and find patterns and measurements, some only partially finished, all drawn by hand. They’re journals of some kind. The text is minimal, more notes than sentences, and, unfortunately, most of it is actually written in the ancient tongue.

I’m so absorbed that when I hear faint footsteps behind me, I nearly jump out of my skin.

I freeze, the book half open, and glance over my shoulder. The room is empty, but the air feels charged. Someone is in here. Quickly replacing the book, I scan the upper floors for movement.

But I’m alone apart from the dust drifting in constellations through the morning light. Relieved, I keep searching until I’m interrupted by the sound of a book snapping shut.

I spin and shriek when I find a man standing too close behind me. My hand flies to cover my mouth.

“Wrong shelf,” he says.

My heart stays lodged in my throat for a full beat before I realize he’s talking about the book. He yanks it out and shelves it along with his, but all I can do is gawk at him.

He’s older than Bishop, maybe by ten years. Although it’s hard to say, since his cropped hair is still brown with not even a hint of silver streaking it. And while his light brown skin is unlined, there’s a heaviness in his dark eyes that suggests either wisdom or perpetual disappointment. Despite his robe, he can’t hide the broadness of his shoulders, his build suggesting that he was once a man of action. Probably a knight.

For some reason, he’s here of all places. He pushes a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose and looks at me like he’s found a rat in the grain bin.

“Lost?” The question carries the edge of reproach, as though the books are meant to be looked at, not touched—or, Stars forbid, read.

Not a fucking ghost.