Page 26 of Spark of Sorcery
Several shelves slam together, one coming to shoot right across our path and block our entrance. Clare glares at me.
“Best you keep quiet,” she hisses, then addresses all the books again. “Library, I think the two of you may have gotten off to a bad start. Briony here loves books and learning as much as I do, don’t you, Briony?” She nudges me in the ribs and I nod exaggeratedly. “And she’s befriended me when no one else would. I promise, she really is very lovely.”
The shelf slides across the floor slowly but still blocks our path and above our heads the ancient chandelier turns on its chain.
“Now you speak,” Clare whispers.
“What should I say?”
“Tell her why you’re here.” I squirm on my feet. It feelsridiculous to talk into an empty room. I’m not even sure who or where I should be directing my words to. Clare nudges me again. “Go on.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “My sister was killed at the academy nine years ago. I want to find out what happened to her.”
“And we think there may be some answers, or at least some information, that could help us in the library. If we can find it.”
The chandelier twists back the other way, the chain groaning and I get the distinct impression the library is considering me and my request.
“Please,” I say, “I owe it to her to discover the truth and I don’t know where else to start.”
Nothing happens. I glimpse at Clare.
“Maybe this isn’t going to work,” I say. “The library is a part of the academy and if the academy is keeping secrets maybe the library is too.”
The shelf blocking our path, slams backwards and in front of us, the stacks begin to dance, churning and spinning and twisting, so quickly it makes me dizzy.
Then, as quickly as it all starts, it freezes, a path through the stacks laid out in front of us.
“Come on,” Clare says, taking my hand in hers and dragging me through the library, right into its depths. It reminds me a lot of the maze we had to fight our way through as part of the last trial, and seeing as I came close to losing my life in that maze – even though Professor Tudor was meant to be keeping that from happening – I don’t love the feeling.
“This place gives me the creeps,” I whisper into Clare’s ear.
“Shhh,” she says, pulling me around a bend, a flock oflibrary books discarded around our feet, and then stops. We’ve come as far as we can.
The shelves here are especially high, reaching all the way up to the ceiling and blocking out the sunshine up above. Long ladders rest against the shelves, although they don’t look at all steady. The shelves themselves are rammed full with huge leather-bound volumes.
“This is it,” Clare says, stepping towards the shelves and running her fingers over the spines, “the history of the academy.” She pulls one from the shelf, a cloud of dust bellowing up into her face. She wipes a thick layer from the cover and peels open the first page. Even from a pace away I can smell how musty the book is. “I don’t think anyone’s looked through these in a long, long time.”
Sliding the book into place, she runs her finger along the spines of the other books lining the shelf, then tips her head backwards and looks up.
“This isn’t what I found last time. That was like an official yearbook.”
“They aren’t the books I found when we were looking for information about the trials either. These seem more like ledgers, record keeping. See how this one has been filled in by hand.” She tilts the book towards me and I see dark ink scrawling across the yellowing page.
“Is it the right year?” I ask her.
She shakes her head and I step forward and help her search among the shelves. Soon it becomes apparent that the year we want is somewhere high on a shelf above us.
“Fiddle sticks,” Clare mutters.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say, examining the ladders and their missing rungs.
“Do you think it’s safe?” she asks.
“Probably not,” I say, rolling up my sleeves and stepping up to the one that looks the most secure.
“Here, at least let me hold it steady for you,” she insists, taking a grip of the ladder. The thing is so long and spindly looking I’m not sure it will help much, but I let her go ahead, and I start to climb.
“Just like a tree,” I call down to her as I ascend up the shelves, passing decade after decade, climbing forward in time as I do, wondering if the books I’m passing contain the details of my ancestors. A great-great-grandfather perhaps, maybe a distant cousin. Were we always bound to Slate Quarter, doomed to spend our days there from the creation of the realm? Did none of them have talents, skills, abilities? Was Amelia the only one who was different?
