Page 4 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely
“How delightful,” she says. The look she gives me then makes me feel like I am mere moments from being devoured. I catch an edge of amusement in her gaze and I think she might be laughing at me.
“Well, I should not keep you any further from your evening meal. Go. You are dismissed.” I’m not prepared for the sudden end to this confusing interaction. The Librarian turns away and the door behind me swings open again. I should go. If I am late,I run the risk of going hungry for the night. I’m still hesitating, waiting for the trap when the Librarian looks back at me.
“Scribe,” she says, holding my gaze. My breath is caught somewhere in my chest and passing out seems like a sudden and real threat. “Have you lost the use of your limbs too, or do you have something else to say?”
I don’t bother to sign a farewell this time either. I turn tail and run, putting as much space between us as I can. Trying to outrace the fact that I am not as upset by her as I should be.
I had thought waking from that fever, with no memories and the weight of something horrific and cursed upon me had been bad enough. It was nothing on waking from a fitful sleep clouded by dark shadows and nightmarish figures. The weight of that was a dread that settled over me like a shroud, as if I were preparing for a funeral- only the funeral was mine.
I lie for far too long in my little chamber, staring at the patterns of the natural stone in the ceiling. Like most everything in the Citadel, it has been carved into the stone and the walls show the natural striation of the rock. There are no windows, nor the illusion of them, in the scribes dorms, though I have memories of the grand illusory windows in the Keep.
The large rug that greets my toes when I finally drag myself out of bed is more dust than anything else. The room is furnished with my bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, and a desk that I rarely use these days. When I want to keep sitting at a desk I stay late in the scriptorium. At least there I can use my paints.
I don’t know why I waste my time and supplies painting so much, as if I am some sort of artist. It’s like playing pretend. Pretending to have the audacity to think I could ever be an illuminator. It is entirely foolish, and a waste of time. Aridiculous fancy for a scribe who is no better than she ought to be.
I hurl myself from the bed, pushing my thoughts aside. They are far too grim for first thing in the morning. I cross to the washstand in three steps, which is the farthest distance across the room. It isn’t much, but it is at least a space of my own. A little sanctuary from the terrors of curses and Librarians. If only they wouldn’t follow me into my dreams.
I wash up with the cold water from the washstand and throw my wardrobe open with more force than is necessary. It is filled with an unimaginative collection of black woollen shifts, grey wool surcoats, and grey woollen hose that I wear year round to protect against the cold underground air. I have two pairs of brown boots to swap between, though I only wear one pair, lest I wear through both and end up without shoes entirely.
This small space is everything I need. Everything that I am content with. I don’twantanything more than this. I pull out a set of clothes for the day and strip off my sleeping shift.
The curse mark is a dark black ink blot across my chest. It’s stark against my skin in the ancient mirror on the washstand. Bigger now than it was when I woke a week ago. It had only been a small blot, then. It’s the size of my palm now. Not a single soul had remarked upon it, and when I’d asked the healer, Lune, to look, she’d only looked at me confused and assured me there was nothing there.
I look down at it now, press my fingers against it. Where the skin should be warm, it is cool to the touch. It is very much still there. After a lifetime of feeling cursed, it’s strange to know I truly am this time. I turn my back on the mirror and pull my clothes on, covering up the reminder of the day everything had gone horribly wrong.
I smooth out any creases and check myself in the mirror before I go. With its dark, degraded edges, I do not look outof place at all. Short bobbed hair, dark and neat. Stern dark brows, always too serious. Large round glasses perched on an unremarkable nose. Perfectly acceptable figure with no real points of interest that had suited me just fine so far in life. Entirely uninteresting. Exactly as I wanted to be.
I take up my lapel pin from where I had discarded it the evening before. It indicates my place and affiliation and grants me the protection of the Library and its Librarians. Reminds anyone else of my station, if they bother to look. Very rarely did anyone bother to look.
I pin it in place and flick my pocket watch open to check the time. I’ve missed the morning meal. I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone after yesterday anyway, but the morning will be harder for it. I hate missing a meal.
For now, I’ll need to be swift so I can enter with the other scribes. I doubt the Librarian will be watching the scriptorium again, but the last thing I need is to catch her attention again. I hope she’s already forgotten me. That something else, something more interesting will catch her attention. I just need some luck. Unfortunately, I fear I may never have had any in the first place.
Chapter 3
Lorel
I findSybri and Trefor in the crowded hall and fall into step beside them.
“Morning Lorel,” says Trefor, grinning broadly. He’s always far too cheerful. Brown eyes always alight. A slight creature with steady hands.
Good morning.If either of them thinks it strange for me to be signing, neither comment. I push my glasses back up my nose as I fall in beside them.
“That was rotten luck yesterday,” says Trefor. I catch both of them giving me a look over, as if making sure I have all my limbs.
Sybri nods in agreement. She’s tall and willowy with dirty blonde hair and calculating amber-gold eyes that give me a sympathetic look. “I’m glad to see you survived the encounter.”
If I can just avoid a repeat, that would be wonderful.
“Let’s hope she won’t be down here again today. I’ve not seen her down here before,” says Trefor, confirming my suspicion from the day before.
“Unless she’s taken an interest?” says Sybri. “Though surely she has better things to do.”
Surely.
Unfortunately, my luck is indeed rotten. Or I am more cursed than I thought.
The door isn’t just open. The Librarian is standing there, leaning in the doorway with an air of boredom, watching us file past. The urge to run swells back to life, and I keep my head down and will myself to keep walking forward. The rush of sound in my ears drowns out the rest of Sybri and Trefor’s conversation.
