Chapter 18

Eighteen

Galileo

T he Librarian left. Interesting.

I’m not the only one who noticed, but I’m certain the rest of the class has put it down to her being required elsewhere. It’s only from weeks of studying her that I managed to read the disquiet in her expression. She tugs on her sleeves when she’s anxious, and when Magister Mathias Ackland’s portrait flashed up on the projector, she curled them over her tiny fists.

Ire pools low in my chest, scalding me from the inside out, as I put down my book in favour of studying the two portraits on the handout. I’d already identified the Magisters ó Rinn and Ackland as her likely murderers, but Rector Carlton drew that same reaction.

When she said the parriarchs were responsible, I never thought she meant… all of them. But it’s a theory I’d be foolish to disregard. After all, whatever killed and reanimated her had to be incredibly powerful magic—well beyond the abilities of a lone arcanist.

Which suggests every parriarch during that time period was dabbling in necromancy.

I’m aware that this is a distraction I can’t afford, but I’ve never been one to turn from a mystery, and the Librarian is one of the greatest.

So when Hopkinson turns his back to the class, I reach down to my grimoire, flick to a well-used page, and mutter the incantation.

“ Onvosobli .”

Lambert doesn’t move, used to basic illusion magic, but North jumps like he’s been given an electric shock.

Not my problem. Someone else can explain how I just disappeared to him. I have a ghost to find.

The obvious place to start would be her tower, and I slip from the classroom intent on heading there.

The Arcanaeum stops me. The first staircase I try collapses beneath me, becoming a slick slide with no way to ascend. Unperturbed, I try another, this time dropping my invisibility in favour of a stickiness spell that still does nothing to help me scale it.

Craning my neck to see the top, I grimace as I flick the book shut and consider my options, then still as I spot Dakari there, staring down at me with amusement written into his face.

“Having fun?”

“Naturally.” I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep my calm. “Do tell, how did you make it up there?”

“I’m a guest here.” His insolent shrug makes me seethe, but I won’t stoop to his level. “Besides, Kyrith is busy. You should go back to pretending to learn something.”

Feck you , I want to say, but I hold it back by force of will. I won’t rise to his baiting. Can’t let him know that he’s gotten to me.

“I require her assistance.” My tone is even as I address the Library itself in the hope that she’ll hear me.

“What a coincidence. So do I.” If there’s one voice I didn’t want added to this little tête-à-tête, it’s Pierce Carlton’s.

Evidently Dakari feels the same way, because his frown turns into a full-on glower as he faces down the newly minted Carlton heir. Violence charges the air with an electric hum that has my fingers slipping over the pages of my grimoire, running along the fore-edge and catching on a page that houses a powerful shielding spell.

Carlton is not to be trifled with. His mother is one of the strongest Destruction magisters alive. He might be stronger still, if the rumours are to be believed.

“Alas, it appears we’re to be disappointed.” Turning away from the stairs, I try for an unaffected shrug. “I’m surprised you left class, Pierce. Surely you don’t want to miss Hopkinson parading your mother’s portrait in front of the other students.”

“Of course not,” he agrees, a perfectly bored expression stuck on his face. “But I’d sooner not see the miserable faces of every single doomed ó Rinn he has to show us. It tends to sour my appetite.”

My jaw clenches at the jab, but I say nothing. My time would be better spent in the Astrology Room, searching for answers than trading barbs with these assholes.

But Pierce can’t let it be. “Tell me, did your grandfather make you befriend the Winthrop heir as a matter of political strategy, or was it simply lack of planning on your part?”

Keep walking. Just keep walking.

If I grind my teeth together any harder, I’ll probably need dentures before I turn thirty… If I live that long.

Lambert will be fine, I remind myself, striding down Defenders Hall and towards the wrought iron spiral staircase that leads into the Divination Tower.

Only to find the familiar route is blocked.

On the topmost step, several stacks of books teeter precariously, impeding my ascent.

A glance at the titles makes me scowl.

“ Magic For Relaxation ? How To Unwind With Tropical Illusion Runeforms ? A Guide to Self Ensorcellment As A Therapeutic Aid ? What the hell is this?”

It’s almost like someone dumped their entire anti-stress self-help collection on the step, but normally the books would zoom back to their places if they were left lying around.

Which means they’re here intentionally.

Is Kyrith trying to tell me something? Or is this…the Arcanaeum itself?

Ever since Halloween, where we caught her arguing with someone invisible about the decorations, I’ve been trying to discern the difference between her actions and the Arcanaeum’s. It clearly enjoys meddling, but so does she.

“I am not stressed, damn you.” I grab at my grimoire, flicking through pages with agitated motions as I search for the correct manipulation spell to move them.

It takes longer than it should. Pierce and Dakari’s words have left me distracted, so my grimoire is unable to discern my intentions and flick to the correct page automatically, as it normally would.

I’ve been studying magic for a long time, so there are a lot of pages to get through.

But the moment I find the runeform and lay my hand over it, the number of books increases tenfold.

“I need to go up there!”

Really? Now I’m arguing with empty space, too? This is a new low, even for me.

“Gali—Mr ó Rinn, are you…” I whirl and accidentally pin Kyrith with a look of impatience that I don’t quite manage to temper in time.

“I was looking for you.” I descend the stairs, tucking my grimoire away. “I wished to ask for your assistance.”

It’s become increasingly apparent that Kyrith does not enjoy speaking about her past. Yet I promised to look into the cracks spider-webbing up her arm. Previously, I was only looking into the old Ackland parriarch, but if I need to expand my search, that will leave even less time for my own pursuits.

Not that they were very fruitful.

Glancing around, I spot an elderly arcanist asleep in her chair a little too close for comfort and wave at her. “Would it be possible to have this conversation somewhere private and warded?”

I don’t trust Pierce. I dislike Dakari, but at least he has a shred of honour. The newly installed Carlton heir is as ruthless as his mother and sister and twice as cunning.

Kyrith frowns, but nods, trailing down the hall and then descending the stairs until we reach a nondescript door I hadn’t noticed before.

There are so many doors in the Arcanaeum, I’ve stopped seeing them, so when this one opens and reveals a tiny cramped office full of scattered papers, bland wallpaper, and ripped notecards, I frown.

It’s barely a closet, but as the door shuts behind me, I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck in the way they do when a room is warded by powerful nullification magic.

She floats through the desk to perch on the stuffed wingback armchair on the other side. There aren’t any windows in here, and her pale light is the only illumination until she conjures a handful of wisps that float around the ceiling like orbiting stars.

For all that her posture is relaxed, there’s a wariness in her eyes she doesn’t have when she’s around Lambert, and I sigh, knowing my instincts about her are right.

“You’re uncomfortable with me,” I observe.

It’s laughable. She has power beyond any other arcanist’s dreams and could freeze me in place before I could get close enough to touch her, and yet, here we are.

Her brows rise, and she gestures to the cracked limb. “Should I not be?”

How many times must I apologise?

I take a deep breath to calm myself. She can’t be comfortable knowing that I’m aware of her weaknesses. I'm not about to share my own secrets, but perhaps a little tit-for-tat will give her the impression that we’re on a level playing field.

Can’t hurt to try. “I’m cursed.”

“Curses are?—”

I cut her off with a shake of my head. “I’m aware it’s not the proper term, but it’s apt in this case. Some generations back, a Talcott placed a generational ensorcellment on my bloodline. I have an unknown amount of time remaining until that magic activates.”

No need to get more specific than that. Thankfully, she’s distanced herself from society, so she doesn’t realise what I’ve told her is common knowledge. Even if she wasn’t, she’s the first person I’ve ever told. There's vulnerability enough in that.

Kyrith freezes, her head cocked as she processes what I’ve just confessed.

“You don’t bear a mark.”

She’s wrong. I do. My fingers catch the top button of my black shirt, efficiently undoing it and the two beneath, just enough to display the topmost edges of the ensorcellment runeform which covers my right pectoral.

Kyrith floats closer—I doubt she even realises she’s doing it—but I close the fabric before she can examine me closer. Her eyes linger on the spot for a second, and I wonder idly if she’s using a divination spell to look beyond the fabric. I didn’t see her lips speak an incantation, but her abilities are beyond the norm. She doesn’t speak at all for the manipulation spells she uses to handle things daily. That’s a skill that takes years of repetitive spell use to even be possible, and even then, requires immense focus.

For the briefest instant, I wonder if she likes what she saw. Dismissing the notion as swiftly as it comes—because although she’s beautiful, nothing can ever come of it—I observe quietly as she realises what she’s doing and then draws away, fixing her doe-like eyes on the wall behind me.

Her attention is as flattering as it is sad. Much like my own. Kyrith is a fascinating woman, but unlike Lambert, my logical mind is all too able to see the ridiculousness of flirting or pretending anything can come of our mutual interest. Even if she’s likely the one woman in the world who can’t fall victim to the ó Rinn family curse.

“And you wish for my assistance because…?”

It appears my admission didn’t do anything to settle her unease, and I sigh, running a hand through my curls. Perhaps she could sense that it was already common knowledge. Perhaps she’s seen more than enough ensorcelled arcanists that I’m nothing special.

“I promised to look into what’s happening to you,” I remind her. “It would help if I knew more about your reanimation.”

Using that word makes her eyes narrow, as it should. I’m fishing for information, but more than that, I want to hear her confirm it.

Kyrith died as a byproduct of necromancy. It’s so painfully obvious I don’t understand how no one has realised it before. Perhaps they have and turned a blind eye to it, but I suspect not. The problem with adepts is that often, we’re so surrounded by magic that the extraordinary is simply…ordinary. When something like a ghost running a library happens to exist, no one questions it.

For the longest moment, I don’t think she’ll answer me. Understandable. It’s a huge leap of faith.

“I was killed by the parriarchs,” she mumbles under her breath, turning so she’s not in any danger of catching sight of me. “The day before my first term at the university would’ve started. I couldn’t tell you what magic they used, only that it backfired. I was not supposed to become this.” She waves a hand at herself. “I was supposed to…remain dead. My magic was to be used to protect the building and the knowledge within.”

She pauses again, and I open my mouth to say something when she turns and pins me with those huge, soulful eyes. “I was not the first. They chose liminals with no connections. People no one would miss. Young students who didn’t know any better.”

That makes sense, as much as it sickens me.

My ancestors murdered her. Lambert’s ancestors, and North’s… A good portion of the arcanists who pass through the Arcanaeum’s doors must be related to her killers. It twists my gut, wondering just how much we resemble them.

No wonder she’s always so prickly around us.

“So all six families were responsible? And there are other ghosts?”

That’s an angle I hadn’t considered. If the building isn’t sentient, as I suspect, perhaps other ghosts are responsible.

“Yes. It was all of them.” Kyrith turns away again. “Have you got enough to go on now?”

No. Not nearly enough. She’s feeding me crumb by frustrating crumb and never quite giving me enough to paint the full picture. She never answered me about other ghosts, either.

“We’ve been focused on Ackland’s grimoire, but if all six were involved, perhaps they?—”

“I have the other five grimoires.” Her words silence me. “They’re in the Vault.”

Carefully , my mind whispers, we must tread carefully.

Access to the Vault is any arcanist’s dream and potentially the key to my salvation, but if I seem too eager, she will never, ever allow me down there. “And they hold no answers?”

Kyrith sighs, shaking her head. “They were damaged beyond the Arcanaeum’s ability to repair.”

Five huge tomes thump onto the leather-topped desk in front of me, replacing the piles of paperwork. Kyrith jumps like she’s just as surprised as I am, and I frown.

Another piece of evidence to support my theory about other ghosts.

My hands hover over the cover of one—a warped black leather with runeforms carved across the surface—waiting for her nod of permission before I flick it open.

The first page is promising, a single line proclaiming it once belonged to Magister Margaret McKinley.

Every page after that is covered in hundreds of tiny lines of text, crammed densely into the space at odd angles. But not one of the sentences is written in a language I understand.

And there are no runeforms inside. Not one.

“It’s gibberish,” Kyrith explains, as my heart falls. “It doesn’t match any language I know. I’m certain their original owners cast a powerful transmutation spell on them as a last act before their deaths, to hide what they did.”

Makes sense. If other arcanists became aware that the heads of their illustrious six families were murderers, it would challenge their authority. If Kyrith’s killers were anything like the modern parriarchs, their power and influence was everything to them.

“Ackland’s grimoire is the last one?”

Her solemn nod confirms what I don’t want to hear, and the two of us lapse into our own heads for a long moment.

“Is there any way I can help with your curse?” Kyrith finally asks.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not currently.”

The ó Rinn family curse is well-known to most arcanists, but Kyrith is so cut off from our world that she’s missing gossip that got old two hundred years ago. That’s a good thing in a lot of ways—like Lambert, she doesn’t look at me like I’m diseased—but unhelpful in others.

If she knew what I stand to lose, she’d never trust me. I need that trust. Combined with her gratitude for saving her from her affliction, it might just be enough to get me access to the Vault.

“I’m one of the biggest sources of knowledge in the arcane world,” she prods. “If I’m dying, I might as well do some good before my end.”

“You’re not dying,” I snap, then instantly curse myself for it. “We will discover the cure for this.”

Kyrith gives me a tight smile, one I know too well. It’s the same smile I wear whenever someone tries to convince me I’m the exception to the curse. The smile of someone who knows that there’s no way to escape destiny.