Page 43 of Twisted Magic

“That’s not necessarily true,” he chided, fretting over these books he’d never known existed until this moment. “Not all houses want the expense of an in-house Harahel wizard. We’re often at the bottom of the list of priorities. And, ironically enough, high houses are the worst! They have all the resources in the world but will they pay for a librarian? No. In their arrogance they think they have everything handled, that they can do as they please and no one can criticize them.” He finished, color high, and clamped his lips shut on further ranting. “I apologize, Wizard Alise,” he said stiffly, recollecting his company. “No offense intended toward High House Elal, or to the legacy House Phel.”

Amused with him, and with the ongoing revelation that not everyone mentally genuflected to the high houses and Convocation law—apparently being a bit of a rebel opened one up to confessions from other free thinkers—Alise smiled at him. “It’s really fine. The high houses are arrogant and many think only of their own aggrandizement and not the good of the whole.”

He appeared bemused himself. “You have a lovely smile, when you smile for real.”

For real? Alise felt that smile fade, sinking off her lips like blood draining away. When had she developed fake smiles, ones so obvious that this random librarian recognized them without even knowing her?

“So,” she prompted him, being as businesslike as possible, “there’s no way to locate the House Phel archives without knowing the founding date?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he answered, a bit offended by the implied slight to his abilities, as she’d hoped. Pretending to friendliness as a cover was one thing; giving him ideas was another. “There’s always a way,” he continued. “Let’s go look. Sometimes there’s no substitute for the evidence of your own eyes.” He pulled out a sign saying he was temporarily away from his desk, along with a tiny Ratsiel courier stationed beside it so that patrons could summon him if they needed immediate assistance, and then came around the desk. “Let’s begin with the oldest archives and work our way forward.”

Alise walked along with him, deciding not to explain she’d already tried that method. In the first place, one always felt silly insisting you’d looked everywhere, only to have someone else find the thing immediately, as if it had somehow only been invisible to you. Also, she’d asked for help, so she’d bide her time and see if his Harahel wizardry and librarian status allowed him to find something she couldn’t. If he couldn’t, then she could conclude the records simply weren’t there. Though what the next step would be—other than messaging Nic to admit defeat—she wasn’t sure. She hated to think she’d failed House Phel, but pretending otherwise served no one.

“I apologize, Wizard Alise,” Cillian said, hesitating over the words, and after they’d passed through several rooms in silence. “I was overly familiar, commenting on your smile like that. Also, I shouldn’t have said anything about it being past midnight. Or about high houses. I didn’t mean to offend. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me. A most regrettable flaw.”

She started to smile, then stopped, self-conscious about whether it looked like a real one or not. “It’s all right,” she reassured him, pouring sincerity into her tone. “I wasn’t offended and I don’t think that’s a flaw, regrettable or otherwise. I’d much rather listen to someone who speaks their true mind than all the ones who mouth platitudes and Convocation-accepted opinions.”

He slid her a sideways look. “You mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” he mused. “You’re not what I expected, I suppose. All the nights I’ve watched you come and go from the library, speaking to no one, keeping to yourself, so aloof and poised, lovely as a candle flame and just as untouchable, I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “And there I go again. Dark arts take it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, more than usual anyway. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she replied lightly, though she was shaken—and terribly curious despite herself to know what else he’d been about to say. How did one politely ask someone to continue saying alarmingly interesting, flattering, and totally inappropriate things about yourself? One doesn’t, an inner voice answered, one she recognized as her maman, the eternal arbiter of etiquette. Though Alise hoped Cillian would continue in the same vein, he remained obdurately silent now. So, he’d known who she was for some time, and had been paying attention to her coming and going. And she’d been so absorbed in her own thoughts that she’d never once noticed him noticing. Which is just as well, she reminded herself. You can’t afford to have friends. Look what happened to you last time, with Han and Iliana.

“We really need more lights back here,” Cillian said on a sigh as they reached the oldest archives in the darkest corner.

“Allow me.” Alise brightened the fire elemental still tailing her shoulder and summoned several more to position themselves at intervals along the shelves. “I’ve instructed them to light only,” she said as Cillian opened his mouth in obvious alarm. “No heat or burning.”

“Handy that,” he commented, relaxing. “Though these back rooms are chilly enough that a little heat wouldn’t be unwelcome. That’s not a suggestion, though,” he added hastily.

“I didn’t take it as such. I know how you librarians are about fire,” she said teasingly.

A joke that clearly fell short, since he shuddered in horror. “It’s bad luck to even say the word,” he replied, very seriously, beginning his search at the far end. “I’d love it if House Salis would develop a way of fireproofing books.”

“Does it matter, if Harahel has them all memorized?”

“People meet with unexpected accidents,” he answered vaguely, absorbed in his task. “We try to build in redundancy, but even the most powerful Harahel wizards have finite capacity. We also have fewer dedicated house members all the time, as wizards with the correct combination of MP scores often find better paying work elsewhere. House Harahel doesn’t have much in the way of income. Without the Convocation contracts, we’d be destitute.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder, gentle black eyes wide. “That’s something else I shouldn’t have said. You have a knack for making me even more garrulous than usual.”

“Everybody tells me that,” she replied drily.

“Truly?”

“No.” She laughed. “Nobody has ever told me that. I was being sarcastic.”

“You have a pretty laugh, too.” He turned back to the shelves, saying something scathing to himself under his breath. “Anyway, House Harahel still births plenty of wizards each generation, so please don’t think we’re in any danger of having our status revoked. Lady Harahel would have my head if that rumor began making the rounds.”

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

“You know, I think they are.” He tossed a grateful smile over his shoulder. “Which is good, because you’re easy to spill secrets to.”

“It’s the bubble of silence,” she told him somberly. “It does that to people.”

“Ha.” He whirled and pointed a finger at her. “That was sarcasm. I’m getting better at recognizing it.”

Alise watched him work, feeling a bit useless and therefor restless. She could be using this time to better effect, like parking herself at one of the nearby study carrels and memorizing the incantations for the next day’s advanced practicum in potions, not anywhere close to her best skill. Still, she found herself curiously reluctant to walk away. Cillian talked to himself all the time, too, maintaining a running conversation with himself about the houses, their archives, the state of the documents, the library system overall, and occasionally, a comment about that house and some bit of gossip from their ancient history. He seemed to have forgotten Alise’s presence entirely, and she listened, oddly charmed by him and also entertained. So, she stayed within his warded bubble of silence, her wizard senses showing her the boundaries of it, following along as he moved.

He worked faster than she had, checking off houses against the list in his mind, moving through the stacks from room to room, their environs grower brighter and newer, until he came to an abrupt halt. “That can’t be right,” he declared, jamming fists to hips and glaring around at the shelves.

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