Page 46 of Ruby & Onyx

I want to press the matter further, but the risk is too great.

“Thank you, Gemma. I am in your debt,” I say.

Viola throws her hands in the air. “If the king finds out…”

“He won’t,” I assure her. “I swear it.”

Viola stands in one sharp movement, extending a hand toward her sister. “Come, Gemma. We’ve done enough talking for today.”

Gemma flashes an apologetic look at me before heeding her sister’s advice. And in the blink of an eye, they are gone.

* * *

How many books could possibly be in here? Some look like they haven’t left the shelf in over two hundred years. Even the newer-looking books prove useless – no mention of Davina or prophecies anywhere.

Did I expect to see a book called Radya Tristain’s Prophecy? No.

Did I still fantasize about it? Absolutely.

I climb the ladder to reach the top shelf and then work my way down, section by section. One after another, I skim the spines in search of a title that sticks out as being even tangentially related to prophecies, but nothing appears.

Am I supposed to read every single book in here?

When I step down from the ladder to get my bearings, my ankle twists, and I tumble to the ground. My bones creak and moan while I struggle to stand, but I freeze when a croaking laughter bellows from the corner. I turn to see who joined me, a litany of excuses already running through my mind, but there’s nobody there.

I stand up slowly, wincing at my bruised tailbone. And again, the laughter roars. I scan the room, searching around the furniture and behind the curtains, only to confirm that I am completely alone.

Am I losing my mind? Or, are the invisibles lurking in the shadows, unable to contain themselves after witnessing my fall? But of all the humiliation they surely caught sight of, I doubt that this would be the moment that causes them to break their silence. I need to leave before I lose my mind, assuming that ship hasn’t sailed already.

As I shuffle toward the door, the laughter bursts forth again. This time, I catch it at the source. Next to the door, a bronze bust of a man with long, sweeping hair is laughing animatedly, or as animated as one can be with a body that extends only to the neck. Its eyebrows wiggle and its lips spread wide. Once the bust recognizes that it’s been caught, it bites back its lips and tries to contain the sound. But like a tea kettle whistling, it explodes into guffaw.

Did I knock my head when I fell? Maybe this is a sign of concussion.

The wood rattles beneath the giggles until it stills enough to say, “Sorry, ma’am. Couldn’t help it. Not much goes on around here.”

“Are you talking?” I need to see a doctor because this can’t be real.

“Do you hear words coming from my mouth?”

“Yes.” I think.

“Then yes, I am talking.” The bust bursts into a cackling laughter once again.

“How are you talking?” I run my fingers over my head in search of the bump that’s causing this delusion. Maybe I hit my head too hard in the market or the carriage. Actually, there have been multiple moments that could be to blame. Am I concussed? Surely, I am. I should visit a doctor before the walls start to talk, as well.

“With my mouth. Keep up, girl,” says the bust.

“But how?”

“Where are your manners?” He scoffs, somehow managing to look offended. “What happened to polite conversation starting with asking for each other’s names, or even a simple how do you do?”

I don’t know if I should play into this delusion. But, then again, what harm could it do if this is all happening inside of my head? “What’s your name?”

“Charles Lucian Alexander of the house de Ville. And yours?” He speaks with pride as if I should recognize the name. I don’t, not that I’ll tell him that.

“Radya Tristain,” I tell him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Radya Tristain.” He closes his eyes and tilts his forehead down. “Now, before you hurt yourself again, what are you looking for?”

---