Page 40 of Liminal
A fortnight after that ill-fated tutoring session, I’m floating above my bed, face buried in a brand-new copy of an inept romance novel that was left on my bedstand by the Arcanaeum this morning. The patrons are gone, have been for hours, and the library is quiet. I should be able to focus on reading, despite the late hour. It lies open on the pillow, and I wish, I justwish, I could smell the new book smell that must surely be wafting from its pages.
Thud. Thud. Thud.The banging at the door below jolts me so badly that I sink into the mattress before I can recover myself.
What the…?
No one bangs on my door. There are hundreds of doors in the Arcanaeum to choose from, and mine is well-hidden and never used—not least because I always choose to simply phase into the clock tower instead. I made the deliberate choice to keep this room—my haven—private.
My shock fades to annoyance as I focus on the presence, or rather,presences, beyond. Against my better judgement, I find myself drifting down the old, rickety stairwell, until my cheek is pressed against the other side of the wood.
“Look, if you’re going to harass us all until we come here, you can at least open the door.” North’s voice is clipped, hard with frustration.
“Could we have the wrong one?” Lambert asks, and I can hear him knocking on others.
“This is the only red door on the far side of the parapet.” Galileo’s voice is smooth. “Perhaps we should try the handle.”
Handle? What handle? My door doesn’t have a handle.
But it does. The Arcanaeum has changed things while I was distracted, and now an innocent little brass knob sits on one side.
No lock. And it’s turning.
Without thinking, I shove my head through the wood. “Don’t you dare.”
I’m careful not to let my neck—or any of my new wounds show—because while Galileo has seen, I don’t want to show weakness.
All three of them blink in astonishment, and I want to scoff. It’s not like they haven’t seen me before, and unlike my living counterparts, I don’t change. There’s no evidence of my low mood for them to pick up on. No red eyes or puffiness or slovenly clothing.
“Hey, are you okay?” Lambert looks troubled. “You haven’t been to the desk in ages, and we left you books, but…”
There are dark shadows under his eyes, I realise. His man bun is neat enough, but there are none of the cute little braids I’m used to seeing at his nape. North also looks worn out, and there are stress lines around the corners of his pouty lips. Unlike his friends, Galileo remains perfect as ever, his crisp white shirt a sharp contrast to the unruly locks of his hair, but he still wears a grim expression as he takes me in.
Those icebound eyes are too perceptive. He sees too much.
“I once again ask your forgiveness, Librarian,” he murmurs, silky voice soft. “Are you recovered?”
I start to withdraw, but Lambert is there, shoving past. “Wait! Don’t go! I missed you.”
His earnest eyes tricked me once, I remind myself. Whatever truth I convinced myself I saw in him was a lie. Whatever friendship I latched onto was just a fantasy.
But I still stop. Only my face is sticking out now, the rest of me hidden behind the door.
“My grades are down again,” he admits. “I can’t do this without you.”
I scoff at his selfish plea, and he shakes his head.
“No one else makes this stuff interesting. We fucked up, badly. Risking your friendship over some stupid old grimoire was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done—and I’ve done a lot of dumb shit, believe it or not.”
One of my brows rises without my conscious permission. Of course, Lambert—the most impulsive, happy, and ridiculous creature on this earth, and perhaps all the realms beyond—has made stupid decisions before. However, he’s yet to offer any real kind of apology.
North isn’t speaking, either. He stands behind the other two like Lucifer, pride etched into the set of his shoulders.
“Look, Kyrith…” Lambert drags my attention back to him again. “I’ll do anything you ask if you’ll agree to tutor me again. I’ll even clean the Arcanaeum toilets. You wanted electricity, right? I can figure out how to wire up some proper lights.”
I don’t need any of those things, and it must show in my face, because his expression falls.
“What do you want?” he presses. “Anything. Name it.”
I want the cracking to stop. I want to go to school like all the other arcanists. I want to erase five hundred years of loneliness and isolation. I want to eat rich food, drink sweet wine, and fuck gorgeous men again. I want the weight of a heavy book in my hands and the smell of petrichor in my nose.
