Page 23
“Here,” Elias says, pausing before a section filled with illustrated volumes and neatly labeled rows. “These are stories of other lands, other times. Tales of adventure, courage, and discovery. Many of them are suited for young readers, but the lessons within are timeless.” He pulls a volume from the shelf, handing it to her. The cover is soft and smooth under her fingertips, the painted imagery on the front remarkably vivid.
Carefully opening the volume, her eyes widen at the painted images of forests, castles, and distant realms. The pages smell faintly of ink and old parchment, sending a thrill through her chest. Surrounding realities fade for a moment, erasing her identity and the political pull of the palace beyond these walls. Within this small alcove, only the story and its possibilities remain.
Elias watches her. “Take your time, Your Highness. There is no rush. This library is yours to explore.”
Elara turns a page, her fingers tracing the illustrations. The soft rustle of paper, the faint echo in the high-ceilinged chamber, and the occasional thump of her heartbeat form a gentle music around her. She leans back, settling against the edge of the railing. As she reads, sweet, long-buried memories return, and tears threaten to spill once more. Moving toward the far end of the library where she can hide between the deep shelves, she slides to the floor, disregarding the tables and chairs along the aisles. The cold wood beneath her feels preferable, offering a secluded space to absorb the moment fully.
Tears blur her vision, one falling onto the page and leaving a small stain. Wiping the moisture away, she continues to read as the emotional fracture inside her spreads. Hugging the volume tightly against her chest, she recalls the quiet afternoons when her mother would read stories aloud to her. The most memorable tale had been that of a gentle knight and a princess, a story that had prompted a young Elara to confess her innocent desire to marry a sweet prince. A desperate wish takes root within her heart to bring her mother back to life, the memory of that lost warmth making the cold reality of her current marriage ache all the more.
I would have read every single word in this book for you, Mother, Elara thinks. And if the book was terrible, I would make something up. Something beautiful.
Drawing a breath, she clears her vision to focus on the written text. Time passes in a blur. Her legs begin to numb.
Elias’ voice several shelves down startles her. “Good afternoon, Cael. Your duties finished quite quickly today?”
Elara’s breath hitches. Peering around a shelf, she catches a glimpse of Cael standing near the doorway. Retreating deeper between the shelves, she holds the text up as a protective shield to conceal her tears. Her throat locks tight as she struggles to suppress a sudden spike of panic, terrified to reveal her bare, crying self to anyone within the fortress.
Elias chuckles. “Yes, they are making it easier for you. I almost forgot to mention, Her Highness was just here.”
Elara frowns, noting how Elias calls Cael by his name but addresses her with strict formality. She wonders if the two share a bond as warm as the one she possesses with Walker. Rising quickly to brush the dust from her green silk skirt, she shakes back her hair and squares her shoulders, approaching the two men.
Elias immediately smiles. “There you are. How is the book? I have the second volume ready for you,” he says, holding out another thick copy.
“It was good. Thank you,” Elara replies, taking the book from Elias’s hands. She admires the rough, hand-cut grain of the leather binding, the thick vellum pages against her fingertips bringing back distant memories of her childhood.
Lifting his chin, Elias addresses Cael. “Let me get your book, Cael.” He turns to move toward the back of the library, his soft humming blending with the rustle of the shelves.
Elara looks up at Cael, and he looks right back. The silence stretches between them as she searches for anything to say. The night they shared the bedchamber comes back to her, prompting her to bite her lip as she tries to think of a way to apologize for taking his space. She rubs her damp palm against the green silk skirt of her dress to steady her nerves. Shifting the new volume against her chest, she speaks. “Do you come here often?”
Cael’s lifts his hands, moving slower than usual, as if he is considering whether to respond. With a jolt, Elara remembers she cannot understand his language. Embarrassment creeps over her cheeks and she breaks eye contact, watching his hands as they lower to his sides. Cael tilts his head toward the shelf behind her.
Elara blinks, unsure what he is trying to convey. Before she can ask another question, Elias returns, holding a book with a beautifully painted cover. The Rose and the Crown.
She recognizes the title. She has never read the story herself, though she remembers hearing about it as a child, when the older girls would speak of it as one of the most famous romances ever written. She had always known it was a story of love, though she never knew enough about it to understand why it had remained so beloved for generations.
A sharp ache of dramatic irony pricks at her mind. The prince of Riverath is reading a work of romance while their own marriage is a cold transaction forged between two crowns. She finds a curiosity rising regarding whether he seeks a hidden comfort in such tales. Tapping her fingers along the cover of her book, she bites her lip, trying and failing to think of anything else to say. When the silence thickens, she retreats back to her hidden alcove and sinks to the floor, letting the book fall open on her lap.
She tries to focus on her book, but finds herself entirely engrossed by the silent conversation happening between Cael and Elias. She tracks the unfamiliar language, mesmerized by the fluidity within each motion. There is no hesitation between either of them. No confusion. Only understanding.
In the high-ceilinged silence of the chamber, the language carries its own soft, rhythmic cadence. Elara tracks the faint rustle of their wool sleeves cutting through the air and the light, clean slap of a palm against a chest, a physical soundtrack to a conversation she can see but not comprehend.
A strange weight settles inside her chest as she watches the smooth fluidity of his hands. For the first time since leaving Veyrenn, she acknowledges a reluctant awareness building within herself. She finds herself staring at the dark sheen of his hair, caught off guard by how handsome he appears in the quiet spaces of the library.
The moment the observation takes root, her defensive armor slams shut out of pure survival. To find him attractive is to give him a dangerous pull over her thoughts. She refuses to let her guard down, reminding herself that any appeal he possesses cannot distract her from the reality of her political arrangement.
She quickly forces her focus away from their private conversation to maintain her distance. Though she idly turns the pages of her book, she watches the men from the corner of her eye. Elara squints toward Elias, wondering if she could ask him to teach her a few hand motions, just enough to say something simple. The thought vanishes as quickly as it came. Cael might not want that from her, or he might simply prefer their silent arrangement.
Cael shifts beside the shelves. The constant awareness of his presence brings a strange sense of comfort. Deliberately, she reinforces the invisible bricks of her protective barrier, holding the thick book tightly against her ribs like a shield, determined to keep her heart safe from the danger of his kindness.
Deeply immersed in the text, she continues reading while the sunlight gradually dims across the open pages. Amber fades into shadow while lantern flames begin flickering throughout the library. Closing the thick volume with a rustle of paper, she finally stands from the floor, knowing she can no longer delay her return to the sanctuary of their bedchamber to resume her routine.
Drawing the book closer against her chest, she reflects on how stories always offer a world kinder than reality. One where endings are softened instead of wounded.
XII
THE SILENT INK
E
