Page 38 of Liminal
“Do you think she was telling the truth?” I ask, breaking off Lambert’s sticky-fingered perusal of the hardbacks with a frown. “About Josef being a necromancer?”
Lambert freezes, eyes flashing away guiltily. His body language screams reticence, and something low in my stomach roils in response.
“Lambert.” My tone turns cautionary. “What is it?”
“It’s just…there are rumours about your family—the Acklands, I mean.” He corrects himself, knowing I don’t consider any of those stuck-up assholes my family. “They’ve always been said to dabble, and my father used to say that they played up the rumours to counter the shame of not being readmitted to the Arcanaeum.”
“Why bother? It’s not that big of a deal.”
Lambert shakes his head. “You don’t get it. Ackland hasn’t been inside that building in half a millennia, and they were onesixth of the reason it was created in the first place. It made them look weak. Everyone mocked them. You… You’re the reason that Josef just got invited to my aunt’s Christmas soiree. She thinks the tide is turning. I’m pretty sure I overheard her talking about the possibility of ‘re-aligning the houses of Ackland and Winthrop’ when I last saw her.”
My stomach sinks.
So my banishment wouldn’t just doom Eddy. It would doom me as well. If this happens again—permanently next time—Josef will crucify the both of us to appease his hurt pride. His demand, that I become one of the best students the university has ever seen, takes on new meaning. I’m not just a convenient thief, I’m a fucking trophy.
I am so out of my depth.
Which means… I have to go back into that stupid library, get on my knees, and beg Kyrith’s forgiveness.
Lambert is already halfway to the door, buckling that stupid book-holster at his waist with practised, easy moves that I envy.
Who on earth decided that strapping a book to a belt was a good idea, anyway? It looks absolutely ridiculous.
“You should get changed.” He waves a hand at me. “I’ll smooth it over with her. She’s given us a chance, so try to come up with a decent apology while you shower. You stink.” He says the last with a sympathetic look that somehow fails to acknowledge that he drank almost as much as I did last night.
Then again, he looks…flawless. Even his hoodie is different, and he didn’t steal mine.
“Transmutation expert, remember.” He flashes a grin at my confused look. “I mastered crafting breath freshening scraps after my fifth one-night-stand.” Then, with a huge smile on his face, he knocks on my front door. “Ad Arcanaeum!”
He says it the exact same way someone else might say, ‘honey, I’m home,’ and I want to gag. Does anything ever dim his perpetual sunshine?
Half an hour later, when he hasn’t reappeared, I take a deep breath, shove the sleeves of my plaid button up to my elbows, and follow him back into the library.
She admits me back through the front door, perhaps to remind me of how she kicked me out of it last night. The light in the usually bright foyer is murky and grey, and the words beneath my feet glimmer like tears as I step over them.
It’s cold. Colder than I remember it being, and the stupid Halloween decorations that were up last night have been ripped down, destroying the whimsical atmosphere I scoffed at before. Even the plants in the Botanical Hall seem hostile.
Like the building itself has become eerily…angry.
There’s a small crowd of people at the desk as I approach. The Arcanaeum is rarely so busy, but the hushed murmur and agitated gestures coming from the group makes it clear that this isn’t a happy queue patiently waiting for assistance.
Thanks to my height, I can easily see the little wrought iron stand atop the desk and the clean, crisp sign hanging from it.
“Unavailable?” I hiss, confused, just as a hand hooks my elbow and drags me right, through the doors of the Rotunda and onto a staircase.
“You’re here, finally,” Lambert whispers. “Come on. I have a plan.”
He leaves the staircase one floor up, then drags us across the Gallery and up a different set of stairs that doesn’t seem to end.
We’re headed back to the astrology room, I realise grimly. At this rate, if we keep going up there, I won't need to bother with leg day. Isn't there a magical elevator or a spell for flight or something?
“Where is she?” I frown. “Is she taking a day off or something?”
Lambert scoffs. “Kyrith hasn’t had a day off in the entire history of the Arcanaeum.”
“So she’s just sulking.”
A book—a fucking massive tome, more like—flies off the shelf and smacks me about the head so hard that I stumble forward, only staying upright because of Lambert’s firm grip on my arm. I have to hold up my hands to defend myself as it comes around for another pass.
