Page 23 of Crown of the Fae King

Over a black and white checkerboard floor, perpendicular rows of deep elaborate bookcases lined the walls, each held above the common flooring by matching wooden platforms. A pedestalled, marble bust sat at the end of every other case with a full-sized statue at the far end of the room, beneath a massive stained-glass window.

Brian pointed to one of the busts. “Famous students of Trinity College. Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon and the like.” Then he gestured to the full statue. “Lord Byron is there.”

Another row of busts sat atop the cases themselves, on their own wood boxes. Fifteen feet in the air, they were almost lost against the white upper walls and continuous lines of arched windows. The cathedral-like library seemed light and airy despite a few pirate ships-worth of dark oak.

The Long Room was another cathedral but much darker. It resembled a library in that there were, in fact, books on the shelves. But only some. According to the signs, they were in the process of putting nearly a million books into storage before renovation would begin in October.

Even half full, it was the most imposing place I’d ever seen.

There’d been no long empty shadows in random bookcases in the county library in Laramie where I used to go as a child, for reading time with Hilda the Witch. She was the mean library lady who slapped on a hat and a smile, every Wednesday at three.

I was so overwhelmed, I laughed. “So what now? We all just pick a book and scan for the wordUncast?”

Wickham shook his head. “We must look in the oldest of books, which are often not strictly available to the public. With this storage business, we may be finished before we begin.”

“I thought the Book of Kells was the oldest book.” I’d seen the signs for the tourist attraction only a minute ago. When I googled it, it said the book contained the first four gospels, along with illustrations.

“Oldest?” Brian scoffed. “Hardly.”

We sat down at one of the tables in the center aisle. “Any books to do with the Fae will have wards on them,” Flann said quietly. “Any witch’s touch is sure to set them off.”

“Lennon might be useful there,” Wickham said, “if I can get her to them. We can always pop out again, but only if the books are away from watching eyes.”

The brothers exchanged a look, obviously impressed, as if popping was a new idea to them. “Then all ye need to ken is where?”

“Exactly.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “We’re going to…pop…into a restricted area?”

“Aye.” Wickham bit his lips together and waited for my reaction.

“And if we’re caught?”

“Then we’ll pop back to Brian’s house when their backs are turned.”

“Cool. But why didn’t we just do that in the first place, to get here?”

He shook his head. “I’d rather not frighten someone out of their wits nor expose myself totheirmemories in order to alter them. Ye can never judge by looking at a person what disturbing recollections they keep at the fore of their minds. I am often compelled to shower after only a peek.”

“Ancient books on the Fae, aye?” Brian tapped his knuckle lightly on the table. “I suppose I shall go chat up a pretty librarian, shall I?”

Wickham was right.The books we wanted were in a restricted area where they kept books and papers so old and so delicate that signs were posted every ten feet—Gloves required at all times.I assumed the string of unreadable letters below that were the same words, but in Irish.Lámhainní a chaitheamh i gcónaí.

“I think fairies were involved in the spelling of Irish words. You can’t read them, can you?”

“I can,” he whispered.

“Who knew Irish was a language?” I whispered back, as we passed yet another sign.

“The Irish, for one.” Wickham pursed his lips to shut me up.

I followed like a puppy at his heels while he rushed around the surgically clean room. He quietly sounded out the words on signs with no English on them at all, his scowl darkening with each section he eliminated. The low ceiling accommodated only short bookshelves and at one point he was nearly standing on his head while he tried to read small, handwritten words on bits of tape.

Despite the lack of dust, it seemed like the room hadn’t been disturbed for years.

MyFull Irishwas all but a memory by the time we neared the back wall, and I thought more about my next meal than old books. If a leprechaun showed up and granted me one wish, it would be that I’d never be reduced to eating ramen noodles ever again…

A little piece of blue painter’s tape caught my eye. It sat on the end of the last bookcase, both ends rolled up and dry. I wondered how long it had been since anyone had painted. In fact, the walls seemed like original plaster.

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