Page 30 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely
The few I had looked in had, the last had been the most interesting to me because it cross-referenced faetales with historical records as Sila tried to make connections and highlight missing details. It was certainly not the kind of study that the Dawn King would sanction, so naturally it was entirely engrossing.
“Mostly. It’s all you folk really have left of the oldest history. I’ve spent years at a time searching the Heart for more, but if it has what I’m looking for, it hasn’t shown it to me yet.” She’s silent for another moment, and I wait for her to tell me whatexactly she is looking for. Instead, she deftly changes the subject. “But no matter, we will find what we need for you because if we don’t, I will raze the Heart myself.”
Chapter 16
Lorel
The next morningis much the same as the last, only this time Sila commands me to remember to eat alongside her instructions not to leave her rooms. Again, I consider what would happen if I left, and decide I’m not interested in finding out. I finish my morning meal, wondering if Sila has an endless supply of ‘things Lorel likes to eat’, and then turn my attention to Sila's things.
I could read Sila’s research journals for days and not get bored, but I don’t think I will learn much aboutherfrom them. And I want to know more. I want to know why she would threaten to burn the Library down for me, why she is keeping such thorough notes on my condition, and why she is researching how to cure it. I want to crawl into her mind and understand what it is that makes her face go dark when she looks at the curse mark.
Most of all, I want to know why each time she could have let me die, she didn’t. Yesterday it had felt too intimate to sit at her desk. Today, though, that intimacy is what I crave. It’s the same desperate compulsion that had sent me to the scriptorium.I should be wary of it, but I am tired of being wary. Growing tired of being afraid.
I start in the bedroom. I know she doesn’t use it— not for rest, in any case. I don’t think she needs to sleep, and I have yet to see her do so. The room is lined with overflowing shelves and only the wardrobe is in use, half open and dripping with her clothes. I expected her to be neater, if I am honest.
I start my search from one end and work methodically around the room, top to bottom. There are plenty of books, and more research journals, and assorted meaningless trinkets long forgotten and covered in dust. I search drawers and check for false bottoms— I find two with nothing more than an assortment of papers that must have been important once. I check panels for hidden hollows, go through any pouch or case I find and discover a wild assortment of pen nibs, dried bottles of ink, and more than one bottle that I think might contain blood.
I am halfway through the search when I hear the faint toll of the midday bell. I pause, knowing the admonishment that will come if I don’t stop.
I do not stop. I am a woman possessed. A scribe in the middle of a task.
I am considering that the side tables to the bed might be the most likely to contain something interesting when a panel pops under my fingertips. I had tapped it only a moment ago, and had been sure it was solid and it is, in a manner of speaking. I lever a wooden box out of the space and the open end of it reveals a hefty book, lodged solidly into a space that, honestly, no one should ever have thought would accommodate it. It must have dampened the sound.
It almost crumbles under my hands as I shift it, parts of the cover sloughing off, and I wince. It’s a cruel fate for a book. Only, it isn’t a book. Not quite. The cover comes away with a faint tingle of magic, an alarm or ward long faded. Inside, the pageshave been cut through, carved out to fit a small wooden box. And while the book is old, the box is ancient. I’ve never seen its like. It looks as if it was painted once, but it’s all worn away.
I sit back on the floor with the box in my lap. Every other little trinket has felt like the throwaway detritus of a long life. This feels different, not in the least because of how it was hidden within the shelf. Or that Sila had taken a knife to a book to hide it. I know this is exactly the thing I have been searching for.
There’s no charm or sigil or ward on it that I can make out. Just tiny intricate carvings into the brass that have long since oxidised. I find a penknife that I had unearthed earlier and run it carefully around the edge of the lid, conscious not to damage it. I can imagine the alarm on Sila’s face if she were to find me sitting here with another knife in my hands, but the thought only amuses me. I should probably be more worried that I have overstepped in my search.
The box's lid gives with a little click and falls open. Nestled in dust that might have once been velvet and wool is a gold locket. It’s carved with the same style of marks found on the oldest murals and mosaics. I pick it up gingerly and wipe my thumb over the metal. The gold is cool against my skin. I recognise some motifs. While many of our rituals might have changed, the way we mark the loss of a loved one has not. It is a death locket, not so different from the one Orielle has for our parents. Only for it to be made in gold can only mean one thing. This death was a sacrifice.
I open it. A portrait on one side, and a lock of dark hair on the other. The woman looks as if she could be Sila’s sister, but even confined within the frame, the shadows at the edges reach for the lock of hair. Bleed together. Just like Sila’s shadows. My blood turns cold at yet another impossible thing.
I should not be holding Sila’s death locket in my hands.
Chapter 17
Lorel
The remainderof the day is a drag. I place the death locket on the table and set about tidying up the mess I’ve made. It hardly makes a difference. Sila’s room still looks like the burrow of a nesting dormouse. In the end, I tidy up more than my share of the mess, likely destroying a complex system of organisation in the process. The realisation that I’m not afraid of retribution is a sudden and shocking one. I try to remind myself that she is dangerous, but it’s hard to do so standing here tucking all her things away. I begin to understand why it is such a mess. There’s simply not enough space for everything that exists in here.
I make up a plate for midday, even though it is long past time, and find myself wishing that Sila would just appear from the shadows so that I could get some answers out of her. Two days ago I thought she had been locked up in the Library too long. Two days later, I think I am the one who has taken leave of her senses. I had thought what she’d told me was impossible, but it is me who is sitting here with a curse, unable to speak, after having faced multiple attempts to kill me. If it wasn’t happening to me, I would have thought that was impossible, too. I think Ihave been desperate to hold on to some semblance of normalcy, but it doesn’t exist anymore. Not for me.
The air stirs behind me and this time when her fingers thread through my hair and tug my head back gently, it doesn’t take me entirely unaware.
“Miss me, little mouse?” she says, looking down at me. She’s rather lovely from this angle. I shovethatthought aside.
I’ve been waiting for you.
Her fingers comb through my hair with a slight tug, letting my hair drop away as she comes around to sit at the table with me. “What have you found today?”
Questions.
I nudge the box across the table, and Sila’s eyes widen in something like delight. “Oh, I haven’t seen this in an age.”
I can well believe it, given the state I had found it in. Her expression is soft as she takes the death locket and clicks it open.
“I have once again underestimated your tenacity.” She clicks it shut again and tucks it away. The gentle heartache in her eyes, the tightness in the corner of her mouth, goes with it.
