Page 84 of A Sun Scorched Bloom

Emma

Emmahadneverseenanything so beautiful in her entire life. The king had granted her access to his library without hesitation, and though Emma had been expecting something grand, her wildest dreams could never have predicted what she would find behind the nondescript gold door. Even now, several minutes after entering, she stood in the center of the room, looking around in an attempt to take in the sheer immensity of the space.

How do I possibly get books off the top shelves? Emma wondered as she looked at the soaring bookcases rising at least a hundred feet high, only stopping when they met a domed, stained-glass ceiling in shades of blue and white that filled the room with dancing light, making it look like a churning sea. There were no staircases, no ladders. Nothing to indicate how she could gain access to the soaring shelves wrapping around the curved room. Emma turned in circles, deeply inhaling the scent of old, time-worn parchment and wondering where she should start.

When she’d told Erik that she had slept all night, she'd been lying. Emma had hardly slept at all, but not for the lack of trying. There was a buzzing in her head, a constant reminder of the gruesome faces of the dead that had followed them throughout the Wicked Wood. Emma had tried to describe it to Janelle at one point on their journey, but it hadn’t been possible. There weren’t words in their language that could possibly convey how horrific the sight of the bloody, mutilated bodies had been.

Once the dead had abandoned them and she’d been able to think more clearly without their constant presence, Emma realized that she had to figure out a way to either use her gift to help them, or get rid of it all together. She refused to let her power control her instead of the other way around. With a deep exhale, Emma finally walked toward one of the shelves, determined to figure out how the books were organized.

"Just think of the topic you want, and it should fly to that table right there." A gruff, male voice echoed through the room, startling Emma. "I’m sorry," the man said. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

In Emma’s periphery to the right, a man strode forward out of a door that she hadn’t noticed. As the man cleared the doorway, she realized why. The door disappeared as the man walked away from it, sinking back into the wall. The area was quickly replaced by shelves upon shelves of books, filling the round room once again with all types of reading.

"Oh," Emma whispered in awe. She’d never seen such casual use of magic in her life before. "Um, did you say the books would float down if I needed them?"

"Yeeesss…?" the short man said abnormally slowly, as if she was completely daft. "Have you never used a library before?" The man was balding and stood a full head shorter than Emma. His round spectacles sat low on his nose, laying against his chubby, wrinkled cheeks. He was older, appearing to be at least in his seventies, but Emma wasn’t sure if that was a reliable estimate considering so many more Fae lived in Calir than in Desia.

"No, actually." Emma straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, not appreciating his condescending tone. "Considering the Black King has outlawed any and all texts concerning magic, I haven’t had the luxury of going to a library before."

The man’s eyes popped open wide, and Emma felt his shock bounce around the circular room. "You’re from Desia? And theyreallydon’t have books there? I’d heard it was so but, well, the absolute horror of it." He actually paled, as if the lack of access to books was the embodiment of his worst nightmare.

"I am," Emma answered, kindness softening her tone as waves of apologetic energy burst off the squat stranger. "And there are books there. Novels, and things to read for enjoyment. But nothing so grand as this. And certainly no magic to help you navigate what books go where, or books that will teach you anything at all, really."

The man stared at her with raised eyebrows, speechless.

"I’m sorry, your name was…"

"Oh, yes. How rude of me. I’m Bartholomew, keeper of the scrolls. Basically a fancy name for the head librarian of the kingdom. Is there something I can help you find?" he asked, pushing up his sleeves and adjusting his glasses.

"I’m looking for books on the dead." As if on cue, the shuffling of pages and groaning of wood cascaded through the library as hundreds of books moved forward from their homes on the shelves to float mid-air. "Specifically, on people who can communicate with or see them." Most of the books slid back into place seamlessly, however, roughly twenty still hung above her head..

"Are you able to narrow it down any more?" Bartholomew asked, scrunching up his face. He took a small step back as if afraid of her.

"I’d like to know if there is a way to get rid of magic. Or even just turn it off."

"You’re an empath," Bartholomew stated rather than asked. "Such a burden, but also a gift," he tsked, shaking his head knowingly.

"How did you know that?" Emma crossed her arms, feeling exposed.

"You’re not the first to come to this place searching for a way to find peace from the souls wandering this earth."

Emma’s chest tightened dangerously with hope. "There are others like me?" she whispered in disbelief.

"Only one. A long time ago. I have not seen a gift such as yours in at least four hundred years."

So he is Fae,Emma thought. "And did they find their answer?"

Bartholomew shook his head slowly, and Emma physically deflated, her shoulders hunching forward. To have not been alone, to have had a friend who has experienced the same thing that she did… It would’ve changed everything. Made it tolerable, somehow.

"She did not. Not that I’m aware of, at least," Bartholomew said sadly. "Though at the time, I was not the keeper of scrolls, but an apprentice."

"Do you mean that she might have found it, and you just didn’t know it?"

"No, my dear." Bartholomew gave her a wink and bounced on the balls of his feet. Energized, it appeared, from having a challenge. "It means that she did not havemeto help her." With a snap of his fingers, all the books still hanging mid-air, as well as at least thirty new ones, gracefully floated down and stacked themselves neatly on the table. The texts were old, with cracked spines and worn leather in every color and size.

"How long will you be our guest here at the castle?" he questioned, a severe line appearing between his brows as his eyes raked over the enormous stacks in front of him.

"I’m not sure," Emma admitted, her stomach twisting into a knot. There was so much to get through. "Days? Maybe a week, I would guess?"

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