Page 29 of Of Song and Scepter
“Oh, Your Highness!” Pearl’s voice rattles with age. She lays a hand on the desk, pushing herself out of her chair to bow at me.
“No, no.” I hurry to correct her. “Just her handmaid.”
Pearl completes her bow anyway, tottering on her feet. She hinges at the waist, and her spine cracks in a symphony of pops. “Well, you look like an Abyssal Princess to me, sweetfish.” She smiles. “Mmm, that face. Just lovely. Like the star in my romance novel.” She gestures with her book. “But she’s from the Brine. Can’t say I’ve read about an Abyssal before.”
“It’s just Enna.” Heat stains my cheeks. “Please sit. I can find my way, certainly.”
Pearl waves off my concern, moving from behind the desk. “Nonsense. I’m already up.”
She’s short. The top of her white hair hardly reaches my chin. I wonder if this is how the prince felt when he walked next to me on the beach today. She clears her throat and begins to hum softly, and the books rise, resuming their slow procession to the shelves.
“No, really, Pearl. Just point me to the romance section, and I’ll be on my way.”
With a jerk of her head, she leads me into the labyrinth of shelves, ignoring my request. I follow, eager to find a place to rest. If I can get the librarian to leave me alone, I could easily curl up at the base of one of these shelves. The floor is clear and cold; nothing I haven’t slept on before.
She points out the sections as we pass: self-help, cooking, mythology, science. At the bottom of the staircase, she pauses, frowns a moment, and then taps the railing two times with her hand. The stair trembles, groaning like a dredgebeast, and with a creak of stone, it swivels. The top of the stair curls, rearranging to curve to the right. With a final groan, it stills.
Pearl slaps the railing again. “Atta boy,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. “Didn’t want to take the long way ’round.”
I test the first step, questioning its stability, but the stairs do not shift again. Pearl’s hand clutches the railing, and she huffs the whole way up, her wobbly knees knocking together.
“It’s an old spell Queen Amura requested. Mischievous little thing, she was.”
The name strikes a bell, but I cannot quite place it. When I don’t answer, she chuckles. “I shouldn’t expect you to know that. Our first queen, she was. And she loved this place most of all.”
She grips the railing as she hoists herself up another step. Slow but steady, she makes the climb, and we arrive at the top.
The second floor looks much the same as the first. More tall shelves. More floating books. I duck my head as one floats past, aimed for a shelf somewhere behind me. I spot a dark section tucked in the far corner. A whitesteel gate seals the entrance to a shadowed room full of thick tomes. I squint into the darkness, then take a step toward it.
Pearl cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “That’s the royal section. Off-limits, I’m afraid. Which is a pity, really. I’d love toget my hands on some of those old books. Now, the romance is just over here.” I follow her, casting a long, curious glance over my shoulder. The darkness beckons me; the only room in this palace that’s dark enough for me to sleep in.
“What’s Her Highness looking for? Contemporary siren romance? Historical? A little dark and kinky, maybe?” The librarian stands in the romance section, plucking tablets from the shelves and tucking them against her stomach.
A smile tugs up the corner of my mouth as she smirks. I like this female. Something about her feels like a home I’ve never had. “I think I can manage from here, thank you.”
She hands me the growing stack of books. “Alrighty,” she says. “Well, give me a shout if you need anything. It’s just you and me in here, so I’m sure I’ll hear you if you holler. The stairs should stay put till you’re done, don’t you worry.” Shooting a wink at me, she waddles back toward the stairs.
Already, I am at ease. Putting the books back, I trail my fingers along the spines, closing my eyes to inhale their warm scent. They smell of stone, sun, and salt. Nothing like the cold tomes in my father’s house.
My finger catches on a spine, and my thumb traces the engraving of the title:A Siren’s Handbook for Keeping House in the Drink.
What’s an Abyssal how-to guide doing among the romance novels? I should show it to Pearl. She’ll know where it goes. I take it from the shelf and tap the tablet’s surface, activating its stored memory. In my mind, visions of the Drink dance in full color as the narrator states a stilted welcome, then begins relaying the steps to seal a watertight door properly.
Nostalgia hits me like a blast of cold water. Suddenly, I’m reeling backward in time. My body shrinks, reality spins, and I’m a guppy hiding in my father’s library, restless and unable to sleep.
I recognize this moment, the smell of the room. Stale. Like the sea has stopped her gills.
I don’t want to see this. Not again.
Sound rises from the hallway, and I flinch, powerless to stop what comes next—a scuffle, a scream, then silence.
I’m ten years old, and my father is dead.
Chapter eighteen
Enna
Memory is a funnything.
