Page 12 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely
Trefor lies over his desk, eyes wide and glassy. His brown hair flopping over his forehead handsomely. He stares past me into a place I cannot see.
Not yet. My chest begins to ache. There is blood dripping from his mouth and nose. How long have I been dying for that Trefor is long gone? His flesh pale and sickly grey. There is a map piece pressed under his cheek. The last piece he’ll never finish.
Bile rises in my throat and my skin feels too hot. Something warm trickles over my lips as blood trickles from my nose. I won’t die over Trefor’s last work. It’s the least I can do. I hope.
My vision starts to blur and I will myself to push away from my desk. There’s a vague, murky screech of wood on stone and I can only hope it's me.King’s mercy.What of Elris? Sybri?
Me?
I tip sideways, but the impact of the cold flagstones never comes. There is only the cool, solid press of a body catching me. The murmur of someone speaking, slow and indistinct.
Only the dark, heady scent of moss and earth and a sweetness that reminds me of death.
And then there is nothing.
Chapter 7
Sila
A screechof wood against stone carves its way through my thoughts. The sound is a warning, sending a wave of alarm washing over me. Like diving into winter-chilled water. Like sipping poison. It goes as quickly as it comes, replaced by a familiar and comfortable irritation.
The scribes. The Dark Lady curse them if someone is merely dragging their chair across the flagstones. I am on my feet without a second thought, in no mood for carelessness. I might have to take an ear for it.
My boots click swiftly across the stones, the occasional scribe peeking out from their sections and quickly ducking away when they see me. That, at least, is as it should be. I make my way in the direction of the noise, unease growing in me as my footsteps take me closer to the section my scribe works in.
And then someone screams. I hasten my pace.
My heart cannot race like hers can, but it can still scream in protest. Still constrict and contort itself in wordless agony. In fear, an old friend that has been absent for a long while. When I step between the shelves, I find a sedate kind of chaos. Thescreaming scribe cuts off at my appearance. My scribe, Lorel, sways in her seat. A thin red trickle of blood leaks from her nose, dripping over her lips. Her eyes, usually so sharp, are unfocused behind her glasses. She blinks slowly and then her body is crumpling, her skull destined for impact with the floor.
I should let it happen. Let her head hit the ground and crack over the stones. The insignificant trickle of blood should mean nothing to me. But it’s so bright and vibrant. So full of life.
I am moving again, carelessly and without thought. If Ihadthought for a moment, then surely I would have let it happen. It would solve a problem, fulfil my Dark Lady’s command. I catch her body with my own and she is a pale scrap of a thing in my arms. Her head rolls back against my shoulder, her mouth open, her body a dead weight. I can feel it through my fingertips, see it in the eyes of the dead scribe, folded over his desk. Poison. Pain strikes through the heart of me.
Someone has tried to poison my scribe.Mymark.
“You, Scribe Mella,” I say to the living scribe. “Find assistance for these two. Get them to the infirmary immediately. If you ask questions, or fail, I will have your eyes for disobedience.”
“Y-yes Librarian, I— uh— Scribe Trefor—” she starts.
“Is dead, leave him. He does not need us. Nowmove,” I command. By the grace of my Dark Lady, she moves, calling out to break the silence. I lift Lorel into my arms, and give the other scribes no further thought. I would have gone already, but I will never hear the end of it from Mercias if I let the blond one die.
Lorel’s head rests against my shoulder, her breathing laboured where it flutters against my skin. All I need to do is stop and let her go. Let her follow her fellow scribe into the dark. But while I curse myself as I walk, I do not slow.
There is something unbearable in the thought of her heart stilled.
For months now, I have watched her. She was just one of many scribes. Delightful to torment as they are, she is no different from them. There was nothing to suggest that she might be the one my Dark Lady had marked for death. There was no reason for it to be her.
I watched her, night after night, practising late, missing her meal times. She was so determined. And only I knew it. It was our little secret, her quiet unspoken ambition. Such a sweet thing. An ill-fated thing, too.
This is not even the first time I had found her dying, though she claimed to remember nothing of it. I could only envy her that. I fought to not think of it, for to do so was to invite feelings I should not be having.
Naturally, I thought of it often.
I found her clawing her way through her own skin and crushing herself against the wall. I should have killed her then, but she had reached for me when I approached. Pressed herself against my body desperately and I had convinced myself that her illness was not the sign I was looking for. I had so badly wanted that to be true.
It is impossible to deny it now. Lorel is the one my Dark Lady wishes dead. Shadows take me, I need to just let her die already.
Instead, I shoulder through the doors of the infirmary. Every part of me recoils at the thought of her cold and still and beyond my reach.
