Page 84 of House of the Raven
“As a matter of fact, I have just read something very interesting about a beautiful opal called The Eldrystone. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. My studies revolve around human sociology, not fae lore.”
I hang my head. “That’s a shame.”
“But perhaps…”
“Yes?”
“There is an additional collection of fae texts that are too valuable to keep out here for general use.”
My heart leaps.
He digs in his pocket, pulls out a key, and holds it up. “I happen to have the key to that private section right here.”
I exchange a glance with Jago. If I’m to find the information I need, it will be there. I know it.
“You have saved the day, Manuel,” I say.
He blushes bright red, making a smattering of freckles I hadn’t noticed before stand out.
“Guide the way, please,” I say cheerfully.
He takes us to the fifth floor, past several doors marked with “Eruditos Only” signs. At last, we arrive at a wooden door carved with intricate vines.
Manuel slips the key in the lock and ushers us in. “This is it,” he says proudly. “I will be outside if you need me.”
It’s immediately apparent why this space requires restricted access. Only three medium bookshelves stand in a file, but the large, gilded tomes that grace them rival even the most valuable tomes in Nido’s libraries.
The air feels different, thick with the scent of aged parchment and charged with an otherworldly energy that sends shivers down my spine. I feel as if time itself slowed the moment I stepped over the threshold. These shelves must hold treasures beyond imagination, old knowledge from the fae realm, my mother’s realm. The books are unlike any I’ve ever seen—ancient, ornate, and adorned with intricate engravings of mythical creatures and symbols. Each book seems to hum with hidden power, as if the very words within them yearn to escape their pages. I approach one of the shelves, carefully running my fingers along the spines. The titles are in a script that’s both beautiful and unreadable: Tirgaelach.
“It’s your mother,” Jago says.
I follow his gaze to a spot above the door behind us and find a portrait of my mother that I’ve never seen before. She looks resplendent, her eyes wide and full of light, the way they looked when she dropped her glamour to display her full fae features. Only her pointed ears are missing.
At the bottom of the gilded frame sits a golden plaque.
In memory of Loreleia Plumanegra. Beloved wife and mother.
“She was beautiful,” Jago says, stepping next to me. “I barely remember her face. I mostly remember her kindness.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “I miss her so much.”
“Sometimes I think it’s good I don’t remember my parents. It would hurt to miss them that way.”
I face the bookshelves again, wondering why that unique portrait hangs here, why in this room with all these books.
Stepping lightly as if afraid to wake up the ancient texts from some deep slumber, I approach the shelf, run my fingers along the edge of the wood once more, and allow myself to feel the eerie power that seems to radiate from each tome.
When I get to the end, I continue onto the next bookshelf, then back to the first one. In this last one, a gilded tome seems to shine brighter than the others. I carefully remove it, lay it on the lonely table in the center, and lean over it.
“This one speaks to me,” I say as Jago comes behind me.
“If it said it likes your boobs, it’s a dude and you shouldn’t trust it.”
“A little respect, please.”
He groans. “I’m nervous, all right? And when I’m nervous, joking makes me feel better.”
