Page 58 of Heir of Autumn
I smacked him right in the chest.
We passed by the queen’s bedchambers as well, but the physicians insisted that she needed complete bedrest. I wondered whether she still felt the same about me and Sylvain, after the Withering, after everything. Some day, maybe, I’d be brave enough to ask her. I was grateful enough knowing that the Wispwater had saved her life. Sylvain had his mother, and the kingdom had its queen.
Our departure had been mostly pleasant, if a little stiff. The Court of Autumn and the Amber Pavilion were going on high alert, naturally, in light of what had happened to their queen. But that was the most challenging thing of all: keeping the knowledge of the parchment under Aurelia’s throne to ourselves.
I knew the fae would hate us for doing so, but something in my gut told me that we’d be much worse off if they became aware of its existence. The fact that I got out of the Verdance without accusations hurled at me about the Withering was miraculous enough to begin with. Maybe my relationship with Sylvain helped.
So I went straight to Dr. Euclidea Fang for her advice, a brief meeting in her office quickly turning into an audience with all three of the headmasters themselves. Even with the matter of the Withering and the rogue parchment weighing on my mind, I still set enough of my attention aside for Headmaster Shivers, waiting to hear them speak.
But only Cornelius and Belladonna spoke this time, along with helpful interjections from Dr. Fang herself. They turned to each other and nodded, speaking the name of the one person who could help us. Except for Headmaster Shivers, who remained silent. Sneaky, that Shivers.
“Mister Brittle,” said Headmaster Cornelius. “Seek out Mister Brittle in the library.”
And that was how Sylvain and I found ourselves standing over the head librarian’s counter, starting back where it all began. Grand Summoner Baylor Wilde gazed down upon us with his baleful glare, looking like a man who’d just been told that the kitchen had run out of the soup of the day. The urge to stick my tongue out at his portrait was overpowering, but I resisted.
“Mister Brittle,” I said, my hand in my pocket, right next to the cursed piece of parchment. “We’ve come to speak to you about the Withering.”
He flinched as if he’d been struck. Maybe I should have led with something friendlier, how we’d been sent by the headmasters specifically to seek him out.
“The nerve of you,” Mr. Brittle said, his voice trembling. “The absolute nerve. Is that really what you think of me, Lochlann Wilde? You see a wizened, dried-up old mummy of a man and think he has anything to do with this horrific plague?”
I shook my hands and my head, desperate to tell him otherwise. “That’s not it at all.” I wish I could say that the thought never crossed my mind, but he’d filled in all the blanks himself. Remorse clawed at my insides, the guilt scratching at my throat. “Not even close. We need your help. The headmasters do, too.”
“My help?” Mr. Brittle leaned back, his head lowering, eyes narrowed.
Sylvain nodded. “My mother was infected by the Withering, but the waters of the Wispwell cured her and saved her life.”
“Oh,” Mr. Brittle breathed, his features softening. “How dreadful. I’m terribly sorry.”
“I thank you,” Sylvain said, prudently leaving out all the details. “She has recovered now, but we discovered something hidden close to where the drying illness took her. We strongly suspect that it has something to do with the Withering.”
Glancing around to check that no one was watching, I pulled the cloth-wrapped bundle from my pocket. I unfolded the velvet slowly, the piece of cloth courtesy of Satchel, who’d also repeatedly insisted that it was safe to handle.
“My familiar has assured me that the magic attached to this object has been dissipated,” I explained, revealing the piece of parchment as I pushed it toward Mr. Brittle. “It’s so strange. Like a scroll in the sense that it can only expend its magic once, except it never needed to be read. Very much like a trap, or a time-bomb.”
Eyeing me warily, Mr. Brittle tugged on the flap of velvet closest to him. He pulled the specimen closer as he pushed his spectacles higher, leaning in for a better look. He muttered to himself before he looked up into my face again.
“And you want me, of all people, to give you my opinion on this — whatever this is?”
I nodded. “I suppose we could have asked one of the professors, but no one in the entire castle has more experience with the written word than you. It could be very helpful to learn everything about this spell. The origins of the ink and the parchment, maybe even the handwriting itself. Those are all matters that lie within your field of interest and expertise, if I’m not mistaken.”
Mr. Brittle blinked, taken aback. I grinned.
“If it doesn’t take too much of your time, of course.”
The bloom of something bright slowly suffused Mr. Brittle’s face. Excitement, perhaps even joy. Not so brittle anymore. It was the first time I’d ever seen him smiling, his eyes shining with an inner light. He cleared his throat, trying to bring the sternness back to his face, but it was too late. Sylvain and I had already caught his glimmer of happiness. It was a lovely sight.
“I shall need time to examine this, of course.”
“All the time you need,” I said. “Though, not to rush you, but the sooner we learn anything, the better. This is a matter of global importance, after all.”
Mr. Brittle stared up at me, visions of glory dancing in his eyes.
“Cosmic, I would say,” Sylvain added, doubling, maybe even tripling down.
Mr. Brittle’s ancient lungs seemed to swell twice their size with pride.
We left the library in high spirits, incidentally leaving Mr. Brittle in high spirits, too. But not before I gave my father’s giant portrait the smuggest, most defiant look I could muster. I didn’t know why I did that. Somehow it felt appropriate.
