Page 74 of Enthralled

Heat rises in my cheeks. Though he doesn’t say it, I read the promise in his eyes of all the delights he intends to bring me when we are alone together once more. Suddenly I’m not as tired as I was a few moments ago.

Dancing in theGluronkcontinues, the strange troll music filling the air once more. It’s beautiful and strange, and I enjoy the sight, but am relieved when at last Queen Lir turns to her assembled guests on the platform and invites us all to return to the palace. She and Anj lead the way, and Castien and I fall into step behind them. Lir takes a moment to squeeze my hand and ask if I’m all right, her gaze dropping to my swollen abdomen. I smile to reassure her, but she takes care to set a sedate pace, for which I am grateful.

The palace is lit up for celebration tonight. It’s so different from the lastHugagNight I witnessed. Then everything had blazed with golden light in honor of the Prince’s Soliran guests. Now all is suffused in moonfire glow and the gentle pulse of troldishlorststones, which cast everything in a magical glimmer. Vespre Palace has never been more beautiful.

“Dancing or feasting first, my love?” Castien asks as he leads me inside.

I place a hand across my stomach and give him a look. “Guess.”

He chuckles and guides me to a comfortable seat, which I suspect Lir ordered placed specifically for me. Trolls don’t care for cushions and footstools, but I am certainly grateful for both. Castien removes our son from his shoulders and plops him in my arms, promising to return withmogcakes in short order. He darts away, weaving between the dancers who already congregate on the dance floor. He’s so light and graceful on his feet, and I watch him until he disappears into the crowd. Even in this company of Eledria’s elite, he is still the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen.

Oscar rests against my shoulder, drifting away into drooling slumber. He’s so sweet, so innocent like this, it’s easy to forget how quickly he can rally into the living embodiment of trouble. I wrap my arms around him, rest my cheek against the top of his curly head, and enjoy the peace while it lasts. I watch the dancers whirl, memories creeping back in on the edges of my awareness. How vividly I recall watching Castien dance with Ilusine, the pair of them so golden and shining beneath the magicked lights. A dart of pain stabs my heart even now, so many years later. I don’t often let myself think of Ilusine. We’ve not heard anything of her, and I wonder sometimes if she ever managed to make her way back to Eledria, in some distant timeline. Or is she still out there in the mortal world, searching for a way home?

Thoughts of Ilusine never fail to bring Danny to mind soon after. I close my eyes, and for a moment, the beauty of the palace ballroom vanishes, replaced by a different image: my childhood friend, collapsed on the floor of the witch’s cottage. Cold. Heartless. Ilusine had promised to get him home safely, but what kind of man did she return to Kitty Gale’s care? I can only hope he is still the same brother, doctor, and friend he always was.

As I always do when thoughts of Danny and Ilusine intrude, I whisper a short prayer to the gods. I send another one up for Kitty as well. That I never got to tell her goodbye is a regret I will carry to the end of my days. I love the two Gale siblings still, though the paths of our lives have irreversibly diverged. I hope they think of me now and then and remember the friendship we once shared. I hope in the long run they were better for loving me as I am for loving them.

I breathe out the prayer and in that breath I let them go. Again. It’s funny how one must continue to practice the art of releasing, how it is an ongoing choice to relax my grip on the past and not try to snatch it close again. But I’m getting better with practice.

Mixael and Khas whirl by on the dance floor. Young Sor clings to his mother’s back like a little monkey, laughing in wild glee, his curls bouncing. Khas is absolutely breathtaking of course. Mixael continues to wear age on his face, though the air of Eledria might have restored him to perfect youth if he so chose. He is still handsome, and his smile is like a flash of pure sunlight in this twilit realm. He is now the sole librarian of Vespre—a tremendous task. But he does not work alone. I spend most of my days traveling back and forth between the two libraries, assisting Mixael in bindings and sometimes carting prepared volumes back to Aurelis. Slowly but surely Vespre will be emptied of all its Noswraiths. It must be done with great care and precision, however, as we prepare vaults in Aurelis strong enough to receive the grimoires.

Despite the hugeness of the task, it is undeniably easier than it used to be. I’ve been honing my skills, finding ways to liberate and lay to rest more and more of the smaller wraiths. I’ve trained Castien and Mixael as well. Not long ago Mixael succeeded in laying the Thorn Maiden to final rest, liberating the tortured remains of his father’s creative soul in the process. Now there was cause for celebration! It also sent the other Greater Noswraiths cowering into themselves once more. The grimoires lie quiet, afraid of drawing attention. I don’t remember the last time we dealt with an outbreak.

The Doomed City is no more. Valthurg is a thriving place, brimming with hope and promise. There was a time I wouldn’t have believed it possible. Yet here I am, and here we all are. Or at least . . . most of us . . .

Castien still hasn’t returned with those promised cakes, but I suddenly find I’m not hungry anymore. A powerful compulsion comes over me. Biting my lip, I look down at Oscar’s sweet face. He’s nodded off, lulled by the dancing. His snores are soft in my ear.

I adjust my grip on his warm little body, wrap his chubby legs around my middle, and secure my arms under his bottom. Then, rising from my comfortable seat, I slip away from the party. I don’t weave and glide through the dancers as gracefully as my husband did, but I make my way well enough and venture out into the quiet stone passages beyond the ballroom. A smile plays on my lips as I recall the last time I escaped a ball onHugagNight. Castien pursued me and . . . well, that was a night to remember in more ways than one. A night of beauty and tension, a night of tentative hope followed by fear. So much fear. That was the night I faced the Eyeless Woman for the first time and recognized the horror I had brought to life in this world.

Yes, those memories are hard. But also good. I can look back on them now and see more than just my mistakes and failures. I can see the path I have walked, the growth I have endured. I am still growing to this day, and I will dwell on that fact and not dwell on horror.

My footsteps are heavy, but they carry me at last, panting and puffing up the library stairs. I can still hear music in the distance, bright and lovely. It follows me even when I push open the door and step into the quiet of the upper floor beneath the crystal dome.

For a moment I stand in the doorway, breathing in the smell of this place. The smell of ink and parchment and leather, the smell of dust and ancient, forbidden knowledge. The smell of latent magic, always just on the verge of waking. The Noswraiths are all dormant, sleeping. If any are aware of my presence, they recognize me and make themselves smaller, eager to escape my notice. But I will get to all of them eventually. And I will look each of them in the eye and speak their true names. I just need time.

But not tonight. Tonight is a night of remembering.

My heart, drawn with purpose, guides me across the library to my own little cubicle and desk. Oscar cradled in my arms, I take a seat before the pile of unfinished work. Yet another memory intrudes on my thoughts—memory of my first day working at this desk, the Dulmier Fen spell in front of me. How afraid I was! How completely in over my head in every respect. I could not then have believed that I would so soon feel at home here in Vespre. Here in this library, surrounded by nightmares beyond description. I found my purpose, found my calling. Found people with whom I could build a life full of meaning. And though I’d resisted with everything I had, in the end I’d ended up where I was meant to be.

I push aside a few stray papers, my hand searching for something. I find it tucked in one of the little cubbies and draw it out: an onion skin notebook, old and worn on the edges. There’s no spell contained within its pages, no hidden nightmare or wraith. That isn’t to say that the man who wrote the words contained herein wasn’t powerful—indeed, he was a great mage, brimming with deadly potential.

But not everything he wrote was evil.

“Here’s a story, Oscar,” I whisper into my baby’s ear. “I thought you might like it.” I open to the first page and begin to read the opening lines:

“Once upon a time, there was a sister and her little brother, and he was very brave. As long as they could be together, they were both very brave, no matter what happened. One day, their mother said to them, ‘You must venture into the Dark Forest, my children. For your father is sick, and it is up to you to find his cure. But you must be brave, strong, and always loyal to one another, or you cannot hope to survive the journey.’”

I read on, allowing the unfinished tale to spill out from my lips. In this story, in this version of reality, both brother and sister cling to one another through every trial and tribulation. In the end they return home triumphant, their father’s cure in hand . . . only to find their father has already perished and their mother as well. They are orphans alone in this world.

My brother’s handwriting trails off, the final lines blurred and difficult to read. But the story doesn’t end there, not anymore. I have added to it, and I keep reading now, softly, my voice little more than a whisper.

“Only they weren’t alone. They never would be alone again. Everything they endured in the Dark Forest had only strengthened their bond. And the sister turned to her brother and said, ‘No matter what happens, I am here for you, and you are here for me. We have each other. Forever.’”

Tears stream down my cheeks as I reach the last few words. I dash my hand across my face, determined not to cause more damage to these already frail pages. Perhaps one day soon I will copy it down in a fresh volume so that my children may read it to each other. For now, however, I let our combined handwriting—mine and my brother’s—carry the magic and truth of this tale. A truth my brother forgot for a little while perhaps. But I haven’t. And I won’t.

“Darling?”

I startle in my seat and turn to see my husband coming toward me, a plate ofmogcakes in hand. His face, illuminated by starlight, is lined with concern. “What are you doing up here?” he asks.

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