7. Niamh

There is a book I have in mind, one I have yet to read. A dangerous one—a forbidden one, only the Lord Master wasn't the one to deem it off limits to me. I doubt they would care. But I have. I've sought to protect my mind from anything that might sully it. What need would I have for such knowledge, after all?

I am alone. I'll die alone.

The vamryre, however, has peculiar tastes. He wants one thing from me, even if I'm not sure exactly what it entails. I know of it, the act between two creatures meant to create new life. Mortals use it for fun.

So do the fae. They pretend like they don't, but I can hear them, the other workers sometimes. They gossip and speak freely out of earshot of their betters. They speak of trysts and fun and other taboo subjects.

Dirty subjects.

My fingers shake as I pry the particular volume loose from a collection near the middle of the archives. It isn't dusty like the others deeper in, and a simple, brown cover and dark script seem relatively anti-climactic for what it contains. It's only after I finish my chores that I find a corner and read by lamplight in the few minutes I have before the other workers awaken.

With every word, my cheeks flame. My eyes widen. I feel like a child learning about the wonders and magic of the fae—then learning in the same moment that I will never be able to experience such wonders for myself. Only, this act I can experience. Maybe with the red-eyed vamryre.

A worthy trade. I tell myself that over and over. In exchange for information on the mortal realm, any price would be worth it. And it is. I don't need much convincing.

I continue to read, fingers shaking, unease growing. I push it aside and study this volume the same way I would any other text. I strip any emotion from the act and interpret it simply. Limbs and bones. An organ that goes there, a reaction here.

Nothing serious. Nothing vital. It's less taboo than giving up blood.

"Sister?"

I never even heard him approach and my body relatedly has to remember how to work. I startle back, dropping the book entirely. The clatter is violent, echoing throughout the room. At a glance I can tell that no one else is here—yet. No one but Day.

He watches me warily, his head cocked, a question in his gaze.

I stammer. "Day. I didn't hear you."

"Are you busy?" He gives me that almost smile and stoops for the partially open book. I nearly trip in my rush for it, but he's too quick. His friendly demeanor lasts right until the second he scans the title. Then his lips shift downward and scarlet creeps across his high cheekbones.

"I was returning it," I say. My voice sounds odd. Then I realize that it's because I lied. Even accidentally. Even a little bit. I have never lied. The panic doesn't sink in as I reach for the book. My hands are upturned waiting and empty.

Because I can't take it. Politeness dictates that I wait for him to return it.

He doesn't. Instead, he steps back and flips through the volume, an eyebrow raised skeptically. When he scans the last page, he laughs outright and slams it shut with none of the care that should be taken. Thunk!

"I'm surprised they keep such tawdry trash in here," he says, his voice too loud. I scan the room like a hungry mouse. There's no one here, but my heart is racing. No one here, but a part of me still despairs. I lied. I'm filthy, less than tawdry trash.

"I should return it," I say weakly. Finally, he slowly lowers the book into my grasp. I turn and nearly run past dozens of towering shelves deep into the back corner. There, I shove the book back and then jump away as if burned.

What on earth was I thinking, reading such things? Despite my disgust, my brain is already processing the newfound information and storing it away for later. What I once never considered now seems imminent. Inevitable. Sooner or later, the vamryre will do those things to me. Wicked, sinful things.

"You are distracted today," Day remarks. It's a second before I process his low tone. Then I see the confusion in his eyes. "Are you not happy to see me?"

"Yes," I blurt out with a nod. "Of course. Always!"

It used to be the moment of every week I lived for. Wait… Used to? No, it is. No one else could take his place, because he is fae and we are blood. He sees me even though it is forbidden to. The risk he takes is so great I could never repay the kindness. Never.

"I'm sorry, I am just… Thinking about the ceremony," I say.

He scoffs and some of the light returns to his expression. He's himself again. "How silly to worry about something so boring. Though, this year is supposedly a ‘special' anniversary." He sneers. How silly.

To me, it is everything. I would give anything to leave these walls, if not the realm. Anything to see the Citadel proper with my own eyes. Would I ask such a thing of him, my dearest Day? No. The risk would be too great, and his presence is enough of a gift. Besides, there is nothing I have that he could want.

He isn't a rabid dog hungry for a bone.

"Should I leave if you are determined to ignore me? Me, the only one that bothers to speak to you like an equal? Who teaches you purely out of kindness?" His voice rises. "It's only because of me that you can even enjoy this damn place as you do!"

I stiffen and nearly sink to my knees in contrition. "I'm sorry," I breathe out. I'm so sorry. I'm being so rude—so horribly rude. It's as if the vamryre has infected me, stripping away my manners as easily as he did my robes.

My skin grows cold at the memory. At the same time, a deep-seated shame heats up within me, but it doesn't feel like shame should. It's not painful to endure. It causes my heart to race and my belly to flip.

"I'm sorry," I repeat to poor, confused Day.

"I accept your apology. Now get up." He nods and adjusts his bright green robes—his normal style this time. "What shall you read for me today?"

My lips twitch though it would be obscene to smile. "Whatever you like."

His choice is the same as always: a volume from the olden days. One rife with bloodshed and violence and depictions of the horrific wars that eventually led to the Treaty of races. He gobbles up every word and licks his lips every time I mention the word death.

"What a shame we don't live that way anymore," he says when I finish a particularly brutal passage. "Out in the open, rather than here—hiding in a false realm like herded animals. Forced to walk alongside scum like lunaria and vermin like the vamryre. Safe in here, you don't see. You don't have to deal with their infernal stink." His nostrils wrinkle, his disgust palpable. "The other day, you asked of vamryre. I will tell you of them: a slavish horde controlled by three. Cassius, Pol and Nataniel—the only one with real authority. Soon, they will not traipse around, flaunting our rules as they do."

I swallow hard. Cassius must be the master from whom Caspian descends. One of the three, yet Day makes it seem as though… They will not maintain their status for long. Am I curious? I shouldn't be. Yet, I don't implore him to stop. Instead, I ask, "Oh?"

He sneers. "Our high council will put those bloodthirsty rats in their place. At the ceremony, the entire realm will see the way. The rightful authority is not with some pointless treaty, but with the fae alone."

My heart twinges. The boast would sound odd coming from anyone else. Coming from Day, descended from one of the very figures who composed the first council, the words are merely reflective. Right?

Yes,I tell myself. It was the fae, after all, who devised this realm—a haven from the chaos of the mortal world where they were persecuted to near extinction.

"Sister?" Day claps his hands loudly enough to draw notice. "You may continue reading."

"Of course." I read to him until our hour is up and he has to leave. He does so quietly, his head bowed, flaming red hair blazing a path through the shadow. I'm not exactly sure how he sneaks in. Perhaps there is a tunnel or a passage somewhere. Maybe one day I could be brave enough to ask him?—

Stop! I shake my head firmly and return to the bell tower, my hidden haven. I should read or attend to fixing the old books the workers leave for me. There is so much work to be done.

Yet I pace instead. I pace in circles and tear at my hair. I adjust my robes—my remaining set. The other one is ripped beyond repair, folded, and hidden in the same corner where I keep the sketchbook of art. And now my rose. His rose.

I own nothing. I am nothing. It is the way of the world.

One vamryre can't change that—even if he holds the potential to upend my entire world. Expand it beyond the boundaries I have been taught to always obey. Damn these greedy feelings.

I close my eyes and try to drive him out of my mind through sheer will. It's futile. By nightfall, I'm creeping onto the edge of the roof, watching and waiting. My body is alight with all the shameful things I've learned. It's like I've been given a million pieces of silver—the exact price of the only thing I've ever wanted. I'll spend it all without a second thought. I'll throw it all away just for a glimpse. A chance. A tiny piece of hope.

He has my hope in his fist, the vamryre does.

Over the course of the night, he shatters it into a million tiny pieces.

Because he doesn't come.

As far as he was concerned, it was all a game.