Page 81 of House of the Raven
“Exactly. When you skulk around in a cloak, they all pretend they don’t see you because they know you don’t want to be seen. Now,you’re accomplishing the opposite. One more thing,” he leans closer and whispers in my ear, “they know their little princess hates dresses.”
Nonsense. The only reason they don’t recognize me is because they’re spending all of their time staring at my breasts, not my face.
When we reach the library, we walk up the front steps, which are flanked by two raven statues made from obsidian. They gleam in the sunlight, reminding me of Cuervo. He stayed back since, according to Jago, the bird is a dead giveaway of my presence, another beloved pet of Castellina’s residents.
Fantástico!
We cut across La Plaza de Tierra Madre where a once-grand fountain dominates the center. Water trickles weakly from spouts around the goddess Achnamhair—fae mistress of the land, sea, and everything in between. Her marble semblance presides over a chariot, guided by two ferocious lions. I’ve read that globes of water used to levitate overhead, their colors changing with the seasons and the mood of the spell that kept them afloat. Just one more of the wondrous sights that were present in Castellina during the veil years.
Though built after the veil, the Biblioteca de la Reina is a magnificent place, rumored to be the envy of the entire continent. It’s one of the few projects Father initiated that inspired me to participate. Mother’s love for books, which she passed on to Amira and me, made constructing the library in her honor a cause I had to be part of.
Once inside, I’m struck by the place’s beauty as usual. The entrance is adorned with intricately carved tulips, Mother’s favorite flowers. The moment I cross the threshold, a hushed reverence envelops me. I wish she could have seen this. The soaring, vaulted ceilings, adorned with constellations in their frescoes. Sunlight filters through towering stained-glass windows, strategically avoiding the bookshelves in order to protect the books.
Rows of bookshelves, carved from dark mahogany, stand proudly, holding volumes that whisper secrets of centuries past. Gilded tomes, leather-bound classics, and scrolls from far-off lands fill the shelves, a treasure trove of human knowledge.
In the heart of the first level, a grand statue of Queen Loreleia Plumanegra stands tall. She’s depicted in regal attire, her posture reflecting both strength and kindness. My throat aches at the sight.
How I miss you, Mother.
I swallow hard as we approach a tall counter, where a thin man of about twenty-five stands scribbling in a large ledger. We stop in front of him, and he regards us over round spectacles. He has a long nose and a mop of curly red hair that tickles his thin eyebrows. A black band with the wings of a raven embroidered in gold thread wraps around his bicep, carefully stitched to the sleeve of his jacket. This marks him as an erudito graduate of the Academia Alada. Only the best students in Castella are admitted to the prestigious learning center. There are few available spots every year, and they’re given to the brightest of the brightest, no matter their economic background. There’s one requirement, however—the student must be human.
This is a topic I argued with Father many times. There are bright fae born in Castella who deserve a spot. They are also our citizens. He countered that it wasn’t our responsibility to educate them—not when they had always considered our education methods subpar to their own, not when there aren’t enough spots for our own people. How could he love Mother so much and at the same time scorn her people?
“Good afternoon,” I say.
The erudite reappraises me, which involves glancing down at my cleavage, then over-correcting to look anywhere else but there.
“May I help you?” he croaks.
“Can you direct us to the section where I may find books on Tirnanog and the fae ingeneral?”
“Certainly. Take the stairs to your right to the second floor. From there, go to the end of the stacks. The last ten rows will contain what you’re looking for.”
“Thank you.”
“He wanted to eat you alive,” Jago whispers as we climb the steps.
“I never realized how distracted men can be over something as simple as a pair of breasts.”
“Oh, there’s nothing simple about it. Many joys can be derived from—”
I put a hand up in front of his face. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Honestly, you should educate yourself to know what you’re missing.”
“I’m pretty sure I only like men, Jago. I told you this before. So why don’t you tell me about the joys oftheirmany attributes instead.”
“I could, I could, but then they would blame me for corrupting you.”
“Who would blame you?” Father is gone. He was the one Jago was always afraid of.
He gets my meaning but says nothing else. Perhaps, he still feels a duty to protect me. Father always told him he was the big brother I never had, and therefore, it was his job to take care of me.
When I turned eighteen, I had a brief lesson from Nana on my duties as a wife. At the time, I was mortified by the conversation and wanted it over with. I didn’t even ask any questions despite my curiosity. I still remember what she said, however, and the images her words painted in my mind have been replayed many times over. I looked at them from every angle, and my questions only multiplied. Good thing there are libraries to do just that: answer young women’s curious queries.
“How is Nana?” I say, reminded of her. “Have you seen her since you’ve been back?”
“I have. We ate breakfast together yesterday morning. She’s very worried about you.”
