Page 2 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely
If I’m such a disappointment, why can’t you just leave me alone?
Even if she does understand my hand signs, they’re so rushed I’m not sure even a Librarian would manage it.
Orielle’s face closes off and I worry I’ve gone too far.
And then a cool hand slides over my shoulder. Another grips my upper arm and there is the press of a much taller body behind me. I shiver as if I have passed into the dark alcove.
“Lady Orielle,” comes a smooth voice, as cool as her hands. “I am afraid I must ask you to leave. It appears you are upsetting my scribe.”
Dawn King have mercy on me. We’ve attracted the attention of a Librarian.
Orielle has turned to marble. Cold and impassive. Immovable. It’s a look at what she must be like day-to-day. It is my least favourite version of her.
“I hardly think it your concern when I come to speak to my sister,” Orielle says.
I lift my hands to reply. The Librarian’s hand slides down my arm to still me.
“Scribe Lorel belongs to the Library and is in my care. As I told you when you came by earlier, you are not entitled to interrupt her work.”
There is a spark of indignant fury in Orielle’s eyes. “But she was not at work then, was she?”
“Lady Orielle,” says the Librarian, and the way she says it has me shrinking like I’m sixteen again and have accidentally spilled ink across the desk. “I will only ask you once more. Remove yourself and do not step foot in my Library again without the appropriate applications.”
“You cannot restrict me—” starts Orielle.
“If you continue to make such an infernal racket in the scriptorium during the working hours, I am afraid I will be forced to restrict you entirely from the Library. Do not try to force my hand. You do not have any power here,” the Librarian says. Her hand is tense on my shoulder. It’s almost possessive.
I suppose it is a claim of sorts. I am a scribe and I belong to the Library.
Orielle is complete and haughty outrage. Colour sits high on her cheeks and her eyes are bright.
“Fine,” Orielle snaps, casting the word louder than required. Of course, she will not bear to allow the Librarian to have the last word. She doesn’t hurry to remove herself from my desk, slipping off in a soft sigh of silk on silk.
I can’t move my hands to sign a goodbye. There is no point anyway. My heart aches with regret to watch her go, just like it does every time we part poorly. Which is most of the time.
The Librarian doesn’t move once Orielle is gone. Her fingers tap lightly against my arm, and I notice her perfume now. It envelops me in a cloud of moss and old stone. A deep earthy scent with a touch of night blossom. She leans in, her mouth against my ear. My heart stutters.
No one seeks the attention of a Librarian. We scribes avoid it at all costs. A late fee paid to a Librarian is one paid in blood. An excess of noise in the Library itself was an invitation to lose your tongue. To cause damage to a book didn’t even bear thinking about. I dread what my punishment for this ruckus will be.
Her breath brushes cool against my ear, like she has spent too long in the depths of the Library. Perhaps even as deep as the Library’s mysterious Heart, that dark ever-changing labyrinth where only the Librarians ever tread.
“Scribe,” she says and it sends a chill like the grave down my spine. “When you are done with the day's tasks, I would like a word.”
Dread sits cold in my stomach. If Orielle has brought a Librarian down on my head, I will kill her myself. If I survive.
“Don’tkeep me waiting.”
I cannot shake the cold feeling of relentless dread that has seeped into my bones. It turns my stomach on itself until I wish I could beg off the day's work and be anywhere else. Elris gives me a worried look as he passes me the day's pages. He pushes his pale hair back as he crouches next to my desk, hazel eyes unguarded.
Colour washes,he signs, attempting a smile that he surely means to be comforting. It comes across as wretched as I feel.He’s taking pity on me. Taking notice of the tremor in my hands that will make the detailed work of copying outlines an impossible task.
Of course, there are still myriad ways I can make a mess of filling in the delicate washes for the backgrounds of the illustrated pages. Fortunately, Elris’ style is a more romantic, fluid thing that is unlikely to suffer from the fits of panic that will no doubt plague me through the day's work.
The hours give me no quarter, the minutes rushing after each other relentlessly. All too soon, the bell chimes softly, calling the end of the day. With it come the voices of the scribes rising and echoing in the chamber. My voice doesn’t join them.
I am a coward, so I busy myself in the stacks. Pretend that I’m laying out my work to dry while the other scribes clear out. Maybe I should have asked someone to wait for me, to be sure Idocome out from my meeting with the Librarian. It’s too late for that, though. It’s far, far too late.
Chapter 2
