Page 64 of The Rebel and the Rose
Oil lamps flickered on the low reading tables, casting shadows across endless rows of walnut shelves. They towered so high, each bookshelf had its own reeling ladder to reach all the way to the top. The wooden floors were polished to shine and carpeted with generous woven rugs, and the air was heavy with the scent of beeswax and parchment.
This place was a cathedral of learning, brimming with so many leather-bound books and weighty tomes, a part of Serawanted to curl up and stay here for ever. No wonder Mama always dreamed of this place. It was a haven for scholars, a place that smelled like history and secrets and possibilities.
She fell behind, idly trailing her fingers across a wing-backed reading chair. Tipping her head back, she let the stained sunlight dance along her face, and imagined the library was welcoming her.Come and gaze upon our treasures. Come and see what secrets we hold.
All around the grand chamber, dedicated scholars did their best to continue their work, despite the gawking visitors in their midst.
‘If I lived here, I don’t think I’d ever want to leave,’ said Theo, as he wandered next to her. ‘No wonder this was Oriel’s Sanctuary. They say most of her prophecies are stored here.’
‘Been brushing up on the saints, then?’
He gave her a knowing look. ‘The old and the new.’
She thought again of Fontaine’s tarot cards.
Stone Maiden, Necromancer, Silver-tongue.
They played over and over in her head, these clues that prowled at the edges of her mind.
Sera and Theo weren’t the only ones ignoring the impatiently beckoning provost. Ransom and Nadia had drifted towards an oil painting of Calvin, Saint of Death, an unnervingly handsome figure with ice-pale skin, thick black hair and green eyes. And yet, despite his unsettling beauty, the saint’s face was grave, those green eyes haunted.
It occurred to Sera that not all powers are blessings. That to oversee death was a curse in itself.
She turned away, weathering a twist of discomfort. Shetried not to wonder if she had been cursed too, if she would be able to endure the full flush of whatever magic lived inside her. Perhaps that’s why it often hid from her, only emerging in answer to the nearness of Shade or her own rioting emotions.
Brushing past her, Caruso wandered over to Cadel, Saint of Warriors, gazing up at him the way a child might regard a lion at the Menagerie Zoo.
A black cat watched him from a nearby windowsill, holding court beside the tapestry of Serene, Saint of Animals. Sera found herself drifting towards a tapestry of Saint Oriel. It was three times her own height, and so intricately braided it must have taken years to complete. The oracle’s beauty shone out from every strand, the delicate folds of her pale gold dress cascading along her lithe form. Her deep brown skin was unlined, her black hair falling to her waist in thin beaded braids. She wore a simple gold necklace, and around her arm a circlet that looked like three waves rising from the sea.
In her right hand, she held a single red rose, the oldest symbol of Valterre. Not of the kingdom but the land itself, the true soul of the country. Sera’s cheeks prickled, her thoughts turning to the tarot card she had pulled from Fontaine’s deck.
The rose is both soft and dangerous. It can mean great beauty or untold destruction. It depends on the soil in which it grows.
Oriel was smiling in her portrait, the light in her burnished brown eyes hinting at all the secrets she kept. Or perhaps it was simply a show of her ease – with herself and her destiny. Sera stared up at the saint, wondering how she could ever be worthy of a tapestry such as this? A reputation that spanned centuries.She was just a barefooted farmgirl from the plains, an orphan and a chancer. A smuggler, even now.
The mere idea of sainthood made a laugh bubble out of her.
The black cat offered a scolding meow.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sheepishly.
The provost, who had been barely enduring their slow-footed curiosity up until now, cleared his throat, pointedly. A fair protest. They had all but prodded him here under duress, and now they were perusing the library like tourists in a museum.
‘This way, please. Time is of the essence.’
They followed him down to the lower chamber of the library. Here was a more modest space, which housed a row of private alcoves, and at the back of the room, a large sequestered hall where the scribes of the Appoline worked from noon to night, preserving the living history of the kingdom.
Provost Ambrose stopped at the third alcove, gesturing towards the room inside. It was a small study chamber, the desk here littered with papers and ledgers. A satchel hung from a hook on the wall and a crumpled cashmere sweater had been slung over the back of the wooden chair.
‘You may look at your own discretion. I’ll be back within thehour.’ He leaned on the last word, making his intention more than clear. ‘In the meantime, please keep your voices down. There are scribes at work down here.’
‘Don’t worry, Provost. The Daggers are nothing if not discreet,’ said Ransom, waving him off.
Now that he wasn’t wreathed in all those menacing shadows, he was more like himself. Unhurried, easy-going…almost normal. This was the version of Ransom Seraphine found herself most drawn to, the one she watched from the corner of her eye when she was supposed to be ignoring him. The one she dreamed of kissing whenever she nodded off in her carriage, her skin growing clammy at the thought.
Left to their own devices, they started rifling through the prince’s effects, looking for clues of his grand plans for Valterre, and where he might have disappeared to. The tight space was improved by Caruso’s swift exit, who cried boredom after three minutes and went off to chase the black cat who had come by to spy on them.
Most of Prince Andreas’s scribblings were indeed illegible, ordinary sentences trailing off into feverish ramblings, while in places entire paragraphs were repeated. It soon become clear that before his disappearance, the prince had been trapped in a kind of loop – one that began and ended with the saints. Pages upon pages of parchment had been dedicated to their birthplaces and early childhoods, their familial relationships and notable feats of power, as well as any rumours that had circulated around them during their lives.
