Page 116 of The Forbidden Fae King

Keira

The sheer size and opulence of Aldrin’s library takes my breath away. Two servants pull the grand doors open at my approach and the scent of musty pages rolls over me like a caress to my soul.

There are academics everywhere, pouring over parchments or hidden behind towers of books, speaking in hushed whispers.

I stroll through the immense space, my footfalls echoing off the white marble floors, veined with gold, and resounding off the many matching pillars. The domed ceiling reaches so high, it is almost difficult for me to make out the details of the elaborate scenes of fae history painted across it from the ground.

There are three levels above the main atrium that have many balconies peering down into it. Bookshelves of white lacquered wood adorned with gold colonize every available surface in a sea of endless opportunities.

The entire library seems to stretch on forever.

I was paralyzed by the size and beauty of it the first time I stepped in here.

I take my usual path through the library until I reach a small room labeledHuman Histories.I walk past the books to the cabinet taking upthe entire far wall.

Within are hundreds of quartz tubes, the stone so flawless it is completely transparent, and capped in moonstone. The entire cylinders are entwined with gold wire shaped into blooming vines. Inside each is a browned scroll of parchment, with a different rough handwriting on every one.

They pulse with dim light.

Aldrin showed me these scrolls the first time he took me to the library, and imbued his magic with mine into the cabinet, so my hand can pass through the protective wards.

These are living memories, preserved from fae and humans long gone. All in this cabinet are of the Great War, or pivotal moments leading up to it, but there are others. Some on the time before, when our two realms existed as allies and trade partners.

I allow my hand to gravitate to any scroll that piques my attention. A flash of a moment plays within my mind as I hover over each, illustrating what the memory is about.

I pull on special gloves and take as many as I can safely handle, then set myself up in one of the tiny private rooms allocated for their viewing. The space has mahogany paneled walls, low lighting with a single orb, and a table for four.

As I shut the door behind me, it blocks out the low voices and soft footsteps of the librarians. I wonder if the sound barrier is as much for my own peace, as to block out my reactions to the memories from the rest of the library.

Some that have left me weeping and others made me scream.

I remove the gloves and place my bare hands upon a single tube that has apples and leaves wrought in gold around it. I have watched this memory at least ten times, but I cannot get enough. The magic within grabs me with a sharp tug.

My existence winks away in a flash.

I stand within the body of a much taller fae man, inspecting the orchards at Appleshield Castle. Our consciousness melds into one, until I cannot tell myself from him.

We fae were commissioned here to construct the greenhouses that nowoccupy much of the land within the keep, and I as their overseer, but I only have eyes for the lord protector’s daughter and heir.

She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Black hair ripples down her to her waist, and she flicks it over her shoulder as she speaks with her father. When those startling blue eyes glance over her shoulder, they catch mine, pinning me in place as my heart stumbles. Her name is Fionola. It is like a song on my lips.

“Elrond? Did you hear me?”

I have to drag myself away from the enchantment she has wielded over me and focus instead on Frode, my business partner.

“Are you happy for the foundation of the final greenhouse to be laid at this site?” He continues, a slight grin on his lips as he notices where my attention lies.

I skim over the broad parchment of the blueprints sprawled out in his hands, then give a quick nod. “Yes. Of course.”

My eyes claw their way back to Fionola of their own accord. I hardly register the hammering of metal on metal and the woosh created by the use of large amounts of magic. The final greenhouse. Gods. I’m not ready to leave this site.

The moment flashes to the next in a jarring flicker.

Fionola is in my arms, gazing at me with an expression that is both softness and simmering heat. One slender hand is held within mine, and my other arm is wrapped around her waist, as I swish her around the ballroom in time with the music.

No one else matters. Nothing else matters.

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