Page 108 of Storm of Shadows
I weave in and out of the bookshelves, finding them jammed closer and closer together the further I walk, until soon I’m squeezing between them. It’s like a maze – a maze I swear is moving around me – because every time I hit a dead end and turn around, I swear the bookcases are in different places than they were before. I start to panic, fearing I’m going to be lost in this library and will never find my way out, the gloom becoming more oppressive and the dust more suffocating.
The shelves have not been well kept. Some are almost empty, while others have been jammed with books at all sorts of angles. Books also lie abandoned across the floor, discarded like dead birds – dead birds that trip me up and have me stumbling. There’s even a book caught up in the unused chandelier, thick cobwebs entombing the long-forgotten candles.
Finally, by some miracle and a lot of perseverance, I reach the history section of the library and find another sign, breaking the history genre into further sections – ancient, early and modern, and then under each of those more specific topics such as the Crystal Wars of the first century and the forming of the realm in the last millennia. Under modern history lies the history of the academy. The school has stood for the last five hundred years. As long as the realm itself – sorting the young people into their Quarters every year ever since.
I follow the sign’s instructions and find a bookcase dedicated to the academy. There are biographies of famous headteachers,tomes on the architecture and design of the buildings, several books on the most famous – and infamous – trials that have been held at the academy, and then finally something more useful – a book that promises to list every important event that has ever occurred at the academy, from its opening to the present day. Surely my sister would be listed – even just as an endnote, an appendix to more interesting events. Although somehow, I doubt it.
With very little hope in my heart, I pull the thick book from the shelf, dust billowing into the air as I do, and flip over the hardcover, bound in a faded cloth. More dust has me choking and when I can see through the tears, I find the year she was here in the index, and flick to the pages.
Seeing the year gilded at the top of the page has my breath catching in my throat and I am back there, standing at the train station, waving her off, so sure the next time she returned would be with good news, that her talents would be discovered and she’d whisk us all away to better places.
Instead, five months later, my father and I had returned to that train station, two lone figures, waiting for the arrival of her coffin in the sleet, a coffin nailed shut. They said it would be too distressing to see her body, that there was nothing left of her face.
I can still feel the cold rain biting against my face, freezing the tears in my eyes, the stench of alcohol from my father distinct and undeniable. A stench that would accompany him thereafter forever more.
The coffin itself had been plain, the cheapest of wood, rough and awkward, hammered together with little care or consideration. On the lid her name scrawled in dark ink. Amelia Besheba Storm.
It was so ugly. So plain. Swallowing up the most beautiful, the most radiant, of creatures. My sister never stopped smiling,no matter how tough things got, no matter how hungry or frightened she was. Sunshine seemed to pour from every single one of her pores, residing in the strands of her hair. And they placed her in that ugly box as if she was no one special at all.
The truth had hit me. My sister would never again take my hand in hers, never braid my hair, never sing to me, never hug me close and whisper in my ear, ‘it’s okay, Briony, everything is going to be okay’.
Bile sloshes in my stomach.
Things were never the same again. Things were never okay.
I trace my fingers over the numbers that form that year. I wish I could go back there. I wish I could beg her to run away with me, or at the very least advise her to keep her secret quiet, to stay hidden. I wish I could have saved her.
But even shadow weavers can’t roll back the hands of time. All I can do for her now is discover the truth – discover the truth and punish those responsible.
I run my finger down the page, scanning the information for my sister’s name and I see how my hand is shaking, and the hair on my arm is standing on end. Am I frightened? I shiver.
“Miss Storm.”
I yelp, the book flying out of my hands as I spin around and find Professor Fox Tudor glaring right at me only a foot away.
I didn’t hear him. How the hell did he creep up on me like that? Unless he was lurking about in the shadows already – or did he come straight from class? I’ve lost all track of time stumbling about in this library and have no idea whether class should be starting or finishing about now.
Slowly, like I’m not disturbed by the way he appeared out of nowhere and scared the living daylights out of me, I bend down and scoop up the book from the floor. I don’t want to lose it – I haven’t found the information I came here for yet.
“Can I ask why you are here in the library and not in my class?” the professor says, folding his arms over his wide chest and continuing to glare at me with those glowing eyes of his.
I’m tempted to ask him why he is here in the library and not inhisclass, but I have a feeling that wouldn’t go down particularly well. And besides, maybe class is over? I have no idea what time it is.
“Looking for some information,” I tell him, hugging the book close to my chest.
“And this was more urgent than attending class? So urgent you couldn’t come to the library on your own time?”
“Yes.”
His brows knit together. “Class isn’t negotiable. I expect all my students to attend and to arrive on time.” I don’t speak, adopting that blank expression instead. He considers me. “What information were you looking for exactly? If you’re searching for spells on how to turn three individuals into toads, I’m afraid it can’t be done.” I snort. “Not by you anyway.”
“Couldyouturn them into toads?” I ask, curious.
The corner of his lip twitches ever so slightly – the movement so fleeting I almost miss it. “Yes, but it would get me into a hell of a lot of trouble. Of course, it might be worth it.”
Do I want the Princes turned into toads? If you’d asked me before last Saturday I would most definitely have said yes. Now my feelings are all mixed up and I have no idea at all.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, momentarily lost in my jumble of thoughts.
