Page 145 of A Liar's Twisted Tongue

My eyes burn, with tears or power, I don’t know right now. “Did Lucian tell you?”

“That’s unimportant.” The headmistress stands up and walks to the back corner of the room. Her bookshelf. No way. There’s no way she’s about to give me what I need. I can’t let my hopes get so high. But hope is already what I’m feeling. She sits back down and opens a book, an old one.

No way.

“Did you know the Arcanes weren’t born? Most orphia have held a common belief that they were Ayan’s descendants. And perhaps they were.” She runs a long finger down the page of the book before flipping it. “But what they became used to be—back when we all had common sense, you see—seen as a punishment.” The book slides across the table to me. “Take a good look, dear. It’s the last of the tomes we have from the Irisan Archives.”

Nothing is written in the common language. Not even with the same letters. But in the middle of the page, there are three images of three creatures falling into each other. The first is tall, with wings the size of its body and a heart the size of its chest. The second lost its wings and its heart is half the size. The last has no heart, and where the wings once were there are bones, pulling the creature down, hunching its back.

Instinctively, I find myself running my fingers along the edges of the page.

“You’ve heard the story, yes? That they were responsible for the seventy percent of orphic lives lost. No one could kill them, so they sent them to a universe devoid of magic.”

I tear my eyes from the unreadable words and strange pictures, now looking at her.

I must not have covered my face enough, because she says, “You don’t?”

“Those aren’t the tales we have back home.”

“Yes,” she hisses and frowns. “The septic. What are the stories there?”

“Arcanes are like ghosts, I guess.” I’m trying not to stutter, but every time she frowns like that and narrows her eyes, she becomes a different person. Gaunt and gray. She must be very old, because the Lucents don’t tend to show such signs of aging until well into their two hundreds. “They take the bad girls and boys or the workers who don’t work enough in the middle of the night.” I shrug. “And everyone you love forgets you exist.”

But I remember my?—

“But you remember your mother?” She raises her eyebrows, bringing some life back to her face.

“I do.”

“You see, the reason the erasure of existence became the common legend of the creatures was because, after their defeat, mentions of someone named Mial were found throughout the universe. In every world, even in the few recovered tomes from the Irisan Archives.” She leans her head down but doesn’t take her eyes off mine. “But no one remembered him. Not even those who wrote his name.”

I feel uncomfortable. Like I need to get up and move. I stay entirely still under her scrutiny. The hope I felt before? It’s squandering.

“That’s very interesting.” My voice sounds far away and so incredibly monotone that I worry it sounds a little too fake.

“My apologies. We’ve gotten off track.” She settles her hand on top of mine, and I try not to visibly shiver. While her hand is cold like Lucian’s, it’s not the least bit comforting. It doesn’t take the edge off of my constantly burning skin. It just feels like dead weight.

“The void,” she starts, “created to be a universe devoid of magic. Now, you don’t know much I’ve noticed, nevertheless, you must know that it is impossible for a universe to be devoid of magic. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She nods. “Good.” We’re both quiet for an annoyingly long moment. “That’s your answer, dear.”

“I didn’t ask a question,” I respond blankly.

“Of course you did. You want to get to the void. Everything you’ve learned of it claims it to be a universe devoid of magic. Though it’s only a universe with a different language.” The headmistress leans over, opens a drawer, and pulls something from it, juggling it between her hands. “Find yourself an Arcane, learn their way, make it to the void.”

I don’t laugh, I don’t even scoff. Is she really this much of a lunatic?

“They’re already here, my dear.” I make out what’s in her hand now. A white-and-blue box. “They’ve been back for hundreds of years, biding their time.”

I open my mouth and she strikes a match on the box. Before I can even sound out the first syllable, she throws the fire a foot away from me. A pile of books next to my chair is sent ablaze, too fast to not be doused in something flammable.

“Put it out,” she whispers.

My knuckles are white as I grip the armchairs. My heart is beating just as fast—if not faster—than when I danced with Lucian.

I look over my shoulder at her. “Are you insane?”

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