Chapter 1

One

Kyrith - Present Day

T he knock at the door comes at exactly ten o’clock, as I knew it would. Every year on October first, they try again. And every year, I stare down at their latest offering and deny them.

The Arcanaeum sighs, books flapping lightly on their shelves as it reflects my exasperation.

“Which door?” I ask softly.

In answer, I get a vision of the end of the Botanical Hall. A black door with a silver knocker, surrounded by ivy.

There are hundreds of entrances to the Arcanaeum now. Doors that have never opened, hidden between shelves. Doors which have been there for years, but which disappear when you look for them. Huge great doors separated by ornate trumeaus, and tiny doors that look like they belong in a fairy’s closet.

With a practised flick of my wrist, I mark my page, close the book on the desk in front of me, and will myself to the Botanical Hall. It’s not teleporting, so much as becoming one with the Arcanaeum and then separating myself in a different location than where I started.

The knocking is louder in the hall, and the other patrons are doing their best to ignore it as they read in hushed silence, but they glance up when they feel me. Apparently, my presence brings a chill to the air, though I’ve never noticed it myself. A few of the patrons have curious stares—the ones who haven’t seen this play out before—but the majority have become so used to my presence that their focus never leaves their books.

As far as I know—and I know far more than most—I am the only one of my kind; a ghost tethered to a magical building. Over the centuries, I’ve pieced together what must have happened to me, but I haven’t shared the truth with anyone.

Many have asked, but explaining would tempt them to look deeper, and no good can come of that. All the patrons need to know is that I’m the Librarian.

The black door is settled between two brass-labelled shelves. The knocker, which is shaped like a two-headed snake, hammers non-stop against the glossy painted wood.

It’s hard to leave the Arcanaeum, even if it’s just to stand on the doorstep, so to speak. My mouth pinches with the effort as I flick the door open and pass through. Still, I can’t help looking around at the world beyond, absorbing all I can while I’m here.

The world outside changes so quickly.

I’ve emerged into a richly furnished house. Styles have changed a hundred times since I died, but money still speaks the same language. The study we’re in is minimalist, with bare metal shelves and a modern, matte black chandelier which reminds me oddly of a spider.

Fitting.

“Librarian.” The adept before the desk bows his head respectfully. “I’m here to petition for my son’s entry to the Arcanaeum.”

Sometimes I wonder if they use my title out of respect, or if his family has truly forgotten my name, just like everyone else. Sighing loses its impact when you can’t feel your breath whoosh out of you, but I still feel the urge to do it as I look Josef Ackland over from head to toe.

I forbade him entrance over three decades ago, when his father stood here and said the exact same words. Just last year, I denied entry to another Ackland cousin.

They still have the same proud brows andaquiline noses that Edmund and the magister possessed. Occasionally, one will pop up with the same brown eyes—so light they’re almost gold—which ages ago I was so enchanted by, though that feature remains rare.

Or perhaps, not so rare, I realise, as Josef’s son steps forward.

His golden eyes are narrowed with anger, locks of dark hair falling into them as he awaits my judgement. If the muscular cut of his body is any indication, he is neither a scholar nor interested in books, but I know why he’s here. Every single Ackland tries to gain entry at least once in their lives. It’s practically a tradition at this point, even for the least academic among them.

Only the Arcanaeum humming soothingly through my soul keeps me rooted in place under the force of his seething.

Not this one , I think to the library, though in truth I have no input on whether the Arcanaeum accepts someone or not. I would gladly have kept everyone but the liminals out of this place if I could, but it doesn’t work that way.

The other five families have all slowly wormed their way back inside, though it took some longer than others. Ackland is the last of the six great houses, and the most persistent. Their inability to access the Arcanaeum has left them weak in the eyes of their peers for centuries.

Time doesn’t matter to the Arcanaeum, and neither does my grudge. The great library judges what it sees in the applicant’s heart.

According to gossip—which I occasionally overhear, despite my reclusiveness—the Acklands have continued practising necromancy, focusing on it to the exclusion of the ten respectable schools of magic. Perhaps that’s why the Arcanaeum continues to refuse to issue any of them a library card.

Or perhaps it still remembers, as I do, the punch of a dagger sliding between my ribs and the sting of betrayal that accompanied it.

Quirking one brow, I extend my shimmering translucent hand towards this newest applicant, ignoring the resentful way he takes it in his own. The bluish-grey of my ghostly skin looks cold in comparison to the warm copper of his.

He winces at the chill which rolls off my spiritual form, so he misses the way my lips fall open in shock.

I can feel him.

It takes everything I have not to jerk away as the Arcanaeum studies him through the place where we’re joined. This—the feeling—has only happened a handful of times before. It’s not a spark, more like a…tingle. An echo that’s only remarkable because of the sensationless void I exist in.

The first time I experienced it was almost a decade ago, and since then, the man has graduated and become a collector, working for the Arcanaeum. I dismissed the entire contact as a figment of my imagination, because it didn’t happen again… Until seven years later. Even then, I wasn’t sure. I never saw that patron again after his introduction, anyway. Then, a year ago, it happened a third time.

After that, I researched, but despite his continued presence in the Arcanaeum, I’m too intimidated to try to replicate the experiment. As for the fourth member of the exclusive club, well…touching him would only encourage him.

My thoughts break off as the Arcanaeum comes to a decision, and I snatch my hand away.

No one is more surprised than me when a glowing cream card appears between us, the line at the top decorated with his name in black cursive writing.

Northcliff Ackland.

The door behind me swings open, and Josef stiffens as he glimpses the inside of the library for the first time in his life. He even leans forward a little, eyes softening slightly with wonder, before he draws back with a guarded expression once more.

Slapping Northcliff roughly on the back, he bows to me again. “Thank you, Librarian.”

I don’t want his thanks. I don’t want him near my Arcanaeum. I don’t want Northcliff there, despite the library’s decision.

Whirling around, I stride back to safety, not even bothering to see if the new patron follows. I hope he doesn’t.

I’m not ready. Especially not for someone who looks so like Edmund. So I pray with every fibre of my being that he stays in the office.

Unfortunately, the second he steps over the threshold, the Arcanaeum knows.

“This way.”

I know I’m snapping, but I’m too raw right now for politeness. The door slams behind him, echoing through the once quiet chamber…which now echoes with a hundred hushed whispers.

So the other patrons know who he is. I’m not surprised. The arcanist community was minuscule, but powerful, when I was alive. It may have grown somewhat in the intervening centuries, but it remains small.

He’s taking too long, I realise, and suspicion narrows my eyes as I turn back to him.

The Ackland boy hasn’t even taken three steps inside. His head is tilted back, and he’s staring open-mouthed at the Botanical Hall like he’s never seen a mezzanine balcony before. Or perhaps it’s simply the stained-glass roof and the plants which trail over every railing that he’s unused to. Either way, there’s something suspiciously like awe overtaking his scowling face.

The Arcanaeum preens. I swear the books in the ancient history section straighten themselves. It gets like this every time there’s a newcomer, but it annoys me that it’s chosen to behave this way for him .

“I don’t have all day.”

He jerks, his scowl returning, then eats up the distance between us with long strides. Damn him, why does he have to be so tall?

Then again, Edmund was tall as well.

At the reminder, I summon his card into my hand and scratch a line across it.

“Strike one,” I hiss.

He gapes at me. “What for?”

“North!”

I groan as a familiar Minnesotan accent booms through the hall.

“Mr Winthrop!” I growl, whirling to face the glowing ball of sunshine who just. Won’t. Leave. “I swear to magic, I will banish you if you cannot keep your voice down in my Arcanaeum!”

Lambert Winthrop has been like this since he was inducted, bouncing and smiling, like an excitable puppy. He’s also the fourth and final member of the mysterious group of patrons whose touch elicited those strange tingles.

Since he appeared three months ago, I’ve been dodging every single hug he’s directed my way, just in case it wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

There have been twenty-eight hug attempts so far this month. Twenty-eight .

He’s just that touchy.

“Sorry, boss lady!” The golden-haired god flashes his easy smile my way, but I refuse to soften. “Can I give North the tour? Please? I’ll be quiet!”

Him? Quiet!? Even with a silencing spell, I doubt it’s possible.

“Lambert,” Northcliff murmurs, and I stiffen as I realise I’ve accidentally given him my back—a dangerous vulnerability to expose to any Ackland. “You weren’t kidding.”

Winthrop strides over and clasps forearms with the newest patron, slapping his back so loudly that it feels like my Arcanaeum shakes with the force of each one. This close, I realise just how tall they both are, and I float a little higher to compensate.

“One more strike, for either of you, and you’re out,” I say, each word wrapped in ice.

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Lambert gives me his best puppy dog eyes.

I roll mine in response. “You’re on your ninth strike this month.”

And every night, like clockwork, the Arcanaeum resets his card, giving him unlimited infractions. The building likes him, even if I don’t quite understand why.

“Mr Ackland”—I have to fight not to spit the name—“needs to be set up in the filing system. You can do whatever you like with him after he’s been inducted, so long as you do it quietly .”

I swear his eyes sparkle. They’re an odd shade that flickers between blue and green, like a tempest caught in glass. Not that I’ve noticed.

“You got it, boss.”

I narrowly avoid the latest hug attempt and glide forward, heading for the Rotunda and my desk, as Lambert begins to give his friend a tour. Given how loud he is, you’d think he was trying to address a crowd, rather than just one person.

“So this is the botany hall,” he begins, voice projecting far enough to make other patrons glance up in annoyance.

“Botanical,” I correct absently.

“It’s got all the alchemy books. They haven’t modernised, though, so you have to ask the Librarian to locate whichever book you want to read.”

“Mr Winthrop, you are the only person who does that. Everyone else uses the index card system.” A system I’ve explained to him no less than ten times.

He ignores me. “The Librarian likes this hall when it rains. She lets the skylights open just a crack, then the whole place smells of nature and shit.”

“Profanity,” I remind him, wishing I could grind my teeth together. How dare he have come to know my habits so well.

How dare he notice me.

“Sorry, boss.”

My fingers itch, ready to give him a second—and final—strike, but I hesitate for the dozenth time. Not out of fondness but apprehension.

The Arcanaeum has never removed my strikes before. Lambert is the only exception. On every other patron, the strikes have stuck for life. For that reason alone, I’ve not yet banished him.

I’m not certain it would take, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

Tearing my gaze away from them, I try not to smile at the way they both fall silent as they enter the Rotunda. It’s a far cry from what it was back when I was alive. Gone are the boring rooms named for the cardinal directions, and most of the Gothic interior, though I’ve kept nods to it with the details in the skylights and the archways. Currently, this part of the Arcanaeum is radiant with bursts of colourful art nouveau. The slate roof is gone, replaced with more stained glass. Before that, it held a fresco of angels inspired by Michelangelo, and before that…

Magic…it’s been so long that I don’t even remember.

“Is every room a different style?” Northcliff asks, exasperation bleeding into his tone.

Yes , I think back, and I change them regularly .

Death can be terribly dull, and when a long time passes between new books arriving, I have little else to do. I like to think some of my improvements—like the stained glass—have made the building more welcoming. In fact, I feel the urge to start changing the decor now, just to disorient him.

Cutting off that thought before it can take root, I glide through my round desk and begin waving open the drawers and pulling free paperwork. I can’t actually touch anything, but I’ve perfected interacting with inanimate objects through manipulation magic to the degree that most patrons don’t even notice. It took years of practising to develop the fine control necessary to move a pen without holding it. Decades longer to do so without incantations. Now I do so with a flourish, filling out the index tab before I turn the paperwork around so he can read it.

“Sign and agree to follow the rules of the Arcanaeum,” I say, mentally congratulating myself for keeping my voice even. “You may take a seat over there.”

He doesn’t move. Simply stands there, poring over the paperwork, like my desk is his personal space.

He’s too close for comfort. I turn, ready to busy myself with something, only for his cough to draw me back.

“I don’t see which rule I broke earlier,” he says, meeting my gaze levelly.

“My mistake.” Without looking, I wave the pen over and add a line to the bottom of the list.

“You shall not loom over the Librarian?” he reads aloud, incredulity lighting his words at the end.

“Aww, how come he got his own rule?” Lambert asks, actually pouting. “I want one.”

I fix him with a glare. “If you had one, you would only break it later.”

His answering smile says he knows it, too. “Come on, boss. You love me, really!”

Refusing to dignify that with a response, I turn back to Northcliff. “Are you done?”

“It says here I’m not allowed to borrow books?”

“This is an Arcanaeum, not a public library,” I retort. “You may read whatever you wish, but these tomes do not leave these walls.”

I always know when they do, and it’s… uncomfortable. The incompleteness haunts me until the book is returned or the Arcanaeum summons it back. In the beginning, when very few arcanists had managed to find their way back into the halls, it wasn’t so bad. But it quickly got out of hand, and I had to ban the practice for my own sanity. Now that attempting to become a patron is practically a coming-of-age ritual for arcanists, the sheer number of loans would drive me mad.

“Does that include the books in the Vault?”

My spine stiffens, and I pin him with a glare. “There is no Vault.”

I make sure to enunciate every word with clinical precision, so there’s no miscommunication.

Lambert’s eyes widen, and his hand grips his friend’s shoulder, as if to pull him away.

“That’s not what Magister Mathias?—”

“Finish that name, and you’re banished,” I snap, and the pens on the desk start to rise as one, hovering menacingly around my shoulders like darts. “You’re lucky the Arcanaeum has decided to give you a chance. Don’t waste it.”

His lips press into a thin line as we engage in a silent battle of wills. Slowly, with more pressure than needed, he plucks a pen from among the flock still flying around me, dips it into the ink, and scrawls his name along the line. The instant the nib leaves the page, I flick my hand at the document, sending it zooming into his file, and deposit everything into the correct cabinet.

Lambert is bouncing again, and I sigh as the pens return to the desk in neat orderly lines.

“Yes, Mr Winthrop. You may now give him the tour.”

With that, I pop out of the Rotunda, reappearing in the room I’ve carved out for myself inside the clock tower with a groan.