Page 2 of Heir of Autumn
“Yes.” Sylvain blinked. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Here goes.”
The great double doors groaned as I pushed them open, the threshold exhaling a puff of air that smelled of old books and parchment, the breath of time itself. Satchel darted forward, spun in a circle with his eyes opened wide, taking in the sights. Sylvain stood with his mouth agape, stunned into rare silence. Maybe the hard candy wouldn’t be necessary, after all.
A first-time visitor to the great library of the Wispwood could pick out so many of its details to marvel at. The fact that it appeared to stretch on forever, for example, how its insides couldn’t logically fit into the Wispwood castle without magical intervention. Or it could have been the way the books levitated from the tables and back to the shelves, cataloguing themselves with arcane accuracy, enough to make librarians weep with joy.
Instead a visitor was confronted with the colossal portrait of Grand Summoner Baylor Wilde that hung over the main counter. He’d commissioned an enormously talented artist to complete it, someone who had committed his likeness to canvas with supernatural precision.
Every last one of the silver hairs that mingled with the thick black curls we shared had been faithfully reproduced, whether in his mustache, his beard, his temples. Even the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the ones that deepened with disappointment when he glared at me — those had been painted perfectly, too.
“Gods,” Satchel whispered, staring up at the great portrait. “It’s like he never left.” I thought I caught the faintest tremble in his voice, a quiet shudder.
“Let’s not focus on that right now,” I said, glaring back up into the portrait’s steely eyes. “We’ve got other intimidating older men to worry about.”
“Right, you go handle that,” Satchel said, flitting over to sit on Sylvain’s shoulder. “I’ll just be over here. Um, bonding with your eidolon. Very important, you know, the familiar-eidolon dynamic.”
I squinted at the two traitors, both of them standing a good distance away from the main counter. Great. So I had to deal with Mr. Brittle on my own, then. Just great.
I drummed up the courage to approach the counter at last. Deep breaths. Okay. Mr. Brittle was just another person, not a gatekeeping monster, and that gigantic portrait was just that — a picture of a man I once knew. Nothing more.
“Excuse me, Mister Brittle? Yes. Hi. Don’t mean to bother you. Could you help me find something specific, please? I’m looking for a water-breathing spell, but I’m not sure how you’d catalog one of those.”
I swore I could hear the creaking of time as he turned his head toward me. Mr. Brittle’s eyebrow cocked slowly, yet so sharply that it resembled a checkmark, a blade. Thin, papery lips parted as he rasped at me in quiet, seething annoyance.
“Now why on earth would you need a spell of water-breathing? Unless you’re planning to go dunking yourself in some great, big, stupid body of water. What a horrible notion.”
I tugged on my collar and cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Headmaster’s orders. My companions and I will be entering the Oriel of Water, and we need a spell that will allow us to breathe safely.”
Mr. Brittle scoffed, his feathered quill flailing wildly as his hand trembled. “The Oriel of Water? I couldn’t think of a more dreadful destination. Wetness is the bane of my profession. Moisture is the enemy.”
I gulped, cowed by his sternness, and yet wondering why the Oriel of Water had anything to do with his work as a librarian. My fingers worried at each other in a nervous tangle.
“Well,” I started to say, my eyes on the wall, the counter, anywhere but Mr. Brittle’s extremely intimidating glare. “It’s not like I’m planning to flood the library or anything.”
He barked once, his laughter hoarse. “Naturally. What would your great father think of you ruining all his grand work?”
I tried not to look up at the colossal portrait of my great father, so great that he had to slap up this glorified poster to remind everyone of his greatness. You’d think he was running for office. Baylor Wilde glared down at me judgmentally. I glared back.
Mr. Brittle indicated down an aisle. “Thereabouts,” he said. “In the section for magical protection and enhancement. There should be a tome that no one has checked out in ages. Can’t miss it. Deep blue cover, with the title in gold letters.Inhale, Hexhale.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved to end this awkward conversation with this strangely water-averse man. “Thank you for your help, Mister Brittle.”
He mumbled something under his breath, turning his attention back to his work. I waved Sylvain and Satchel over hurriedly, leading the way down the section that Mr. Brittle had pointed out. Kudos to him for having memorized the entire layout of the enormous library, a superhuman feat by any measure. We followed shelves of books and scrolls meant for protecting vulnerable, fleshy human bodies against all sorts of dangers, whether it was fire, fangs, or electrocution.
“There’s something here for everybody,” Satchel said, flitting about and perusing the books.
“Most curious,” Sylvain said. “I wonder if there’s something here that would teach our dear summoner the gift of flight.”
I squinted at him. “Don’t you start with that again, Sylvain. I’m a summoner, exactly as you said. My best shot at magical flight is to summon something that can help me fly in the first place. It’d take years for me to master a flying spell otherwise.”
Satchel moved on to the next shelf, fingers running along the spines of yet more books as he investigated their titles. “Or you could just grow a pair of wings, like me,” he said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.
I grumbled to myself and ignored him, pacing down the aisle in search of a book with a deep blue cover. And there it was, its title printed in gold leaf letters. “Inhale, Hexhale,” I said out loud. “Finally. Let’s grab this thing and get out of here.”
What I didn’t notice was that we’d reached the end of the row of shelves, which opened up into another aisle. Someone else turned the corner, hand darting forward. My heart lurched. No. They’d beaten me to the same book. My blood boiled when I realized just who had beaten me to it.
“Evander Skink,” I said through clenched teeth. The blond butterfly summoner. The bane of my existence. The evil twink.
