Page 43 of Wilds of Wonder
“Oh.” He knelt beside me. “Did not get that at all. Thought you were doing something with that screwing analogy. You know, like an erotic picture?—“
“I get it,” I cut him off, then glanced behind me at the massive mountains that rose to the sky. We’d come from the Glacier Mountains that bordered the former star court. I dragged my finger to the border. “We’re here,” I murmured, trying to remember the important locations.
The star castle was in the west part of the court. We were in the north. But where was the library? I remembered staring at drawings of it and being mesmerized by the structure. It had been so beautiful with its tall silver walls, ivy hanging down. And the inside. It had stairways that led to levels upon levels, secret passageways where one could get lost but find the most amazing books. It had levels upon levels, and more books than any other library in the seven courts. And it had been destroyed during the war.
“Are you okay?” Driscoll shot me a concerned look. “Is the shock finally hitting you? Are you realizing that we’re probably going to die? It’s okay. Let it come.” He cocked his head. “Hey, what’s that?” He pointed at something glinting on the ground.
I reached out and grabbed what looked like a chain, lifting the object up from the swath of dust surrounding it. A pocket watch. Silver and tarnished, the glass cracked, but the hands ticking away. I studied it. Ticking backward.
“Oh good, a broken clock,” Driscoll mumbled. “Just what we need.”
“Maybe it’s not broken.” I looked up at him. “Everything else in this world is warped. Maybe the clock is too. Maybe it’s supposed to tick backward. Like a timer.”
“Except what is it counting down to?” Driscoll gulped.
My stomach twisted. “I don’t know.” I stuffed it in the pocket of my trousers. Just another mystery to solve. But not the most important one currently.
“So what’s the plan?” Driscoll planted his hands on his hips.
I pointed to my drawing. “We’re here. The old library is somewhere around here.” I pointed south of us. “That’s where we should go.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think now is the time to go check out books. Besides, everything has been destroyed.”
“History is never truly gone,” I said. “It gets buried, misplaced, lost. But it can also be found. We’re going to that library and we’re going to get answers about how to get out of here.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
MAVERICK, FOUR YEARS AGO
Awintry blast of wind blew the hood off my head, and I had to quickly tug it back up. Snow and ice pelted me from all directions. I fucking loathed this place, yet here I stood, on the frozen Halfstard Lake, waiting for the white rabbit.
I stuffed my hand into my cloak and pulled out the last note she’d left me, my smile growing as I imagined her voice reading this.
On a scale of 1-10, what is the likelihood that Spirit Sky’s infamous Tower of Terror exists? To answer your question about the spirits’ weapons, why they didn’t want anyone to touch them... well I’m not sure we’ll get those answers unless we actually find one of those mythical weapons. I’m not saying one of them is located in the tower. But I’m not not saying that either. I do wonder if the spirits were just incredibly possessive. Or maybe someone touching their weapons would spell doom—for them or for everyone else. I just don’t know which. A little something for you to ponder, BC.
In other news, I’m bored. Maybe that’s revealing too much of myself? But I feel like the year between our competition drags on and on so that I’m spending my days counting down the minutes until I get to best you all over again. Luckily, the day is approaching. I look forward to seeing you soon.
Yours,
WR
I wasn’t sure how the notes had started. A few weeks after we’d picked our first challenge, I’d come back to our spot and saw a note stuck inside the little hole in the tree where we’d hid the glass jar. I’d opened up the folded piece of parchment, surprised to see that it was addressed to me. From the white rabbit. Some inquiry about a type of wooden paddle she’d come across and what period it might date back to.
So I’d replied. Then I went back a few weeks later, and sure enough, there was a response. I couldn’t count how many notes we’d left each other at this point. I sensed she was as eager to hear from me as I was to hear from her. I loved reading her thoughts, hearing about her escapades outside of our challenges, the artifacts she found, the theories she had.
She was brilliant. She would be an amazing addition to the academy. Something I wished I could suggest to her without somehow giving too much of myself away. In our notes, we avoided any personal details, but somehow, that didn’t matter. With every piece of her I took, I, in turn, gave her a piece of me. She might not have realized it, but it was too late to turn back. I’d never stop this challenge, never stop writing to her, not when it was the only connection I had to the white rabbit.
A connection I desperately needed in what felt like my increasingly empty life that was solely focused on this damn academy job.
The job my father wanted so badly for me. The job I took because Ithought I wanted it for myself. But I didn’t feel anywhere near as alive in that academy as I felt out here, doing these challenges with the white rabbit.
I shivered as the wind howled, wondering where in the bloody fire the white rabbit was. I shoved the note back into my pocket and pulled up the scarf that covered the lower half of my face until it rested just under my eyes.
“You’re here early.” The white rabbit emerged from the snowstorm, hood raised, a white scarf covering her face as well, that white fur cloak billowing around her.
Snow rested on my cloak, the fabric already damp.
“I think you’re late,” I said, taking a step toward her.
