Page 38 of Sons of Sorrow
Aphrodite beamed. “And I keep my promises. Give it some time. I’m having it made especially for you. When next we meet, I think you’ll be very happy. Very happy indeed.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Right. No nasty surprises, I hope? Not like the thing about Sylvain you’d been hinting about? The problem with his parentage that turned out to be true?”
The goddess sniffled. “You wound me, sapling. I only meant to stoke the coals of curiosity. For how can there be true love without trust? Among lovers, but especially among family.”
“With all due respect, this didn’t just stoke the coals, Aphrodite. Closer to a wildfire than anything. Sylvain’s been dealing with what he’s learned, but I can’t help thinking that he could have found out in a better way, a better time and place. Now I’m afraid to confirm what you’ve been hinting at about me. The voice in the well.”
She folded her arms and turned up her nose. “I know scantly as much as you do. Forget I said anything, then. It’s for you to decide whether my intentions have been malicious. That’s all for now. When next we meet, Lochlann Wilde.”
And that was it. Her tone was terse, bordering on unfriendly. She flipped her hair, then walked out of frame, disappearing from the painting entirely. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too pissed the next time we met, no terrifying mind-control tricks, no turning of innocent summoners inside out.
The original occupant of the painting gradually faded into view. A stack of books, next to a blank piece of parchment and a loaded quill. Of course. This was the corridor leading to the library, after all. A timely reminder to keep my appointment.
I did a double take as I approached the double doors of the great library, finding a diminutive flying man and his constantly-on-fire friend hovering just before them.
“Oh, Locke,” Satchel said. “We just got to the library part of the tour. I was going to zip us in, but I guess you could get the doors for us, too.”
“Sure thing, buddy.” I nudged the doors open, nodding at Ember. “Has Satchel been treating you well? How are you liking the Wispwood so far?”
“It’s very beautiful,” Ember said. “And Satchel has been a most hospitable host. Very, um, generous.”
“Cool,” I said, trying to be nonchalant, even as my ears started feeling warmer. “Cool, cool.”
None of us said another word as we walked into the library together, but I could tell that Satchel was very pointedly avoiding my gaze. I did try to gauge his reaction out of the corner of my eye, though. Apparently pixie ears turned red when they were embarrassed, too.
We found Sylvain at his own table, books stacked like little buildings around him. He rubbed at his forehead, thumb and forefinger tracing lines above his eyebrows as he read. He must have heard the tinkling of Ember’s jewelry, looking up and smiling as we approached.
“Come,” Sylvain said quietly. He patted the seat next to him, then the surface of the table, places for the three of us to sit. “Alister says to wait for him here.”
We didn’t have to wait very long. On the dot, exactly at the agreed-upon time, Alister Brittle emerged from behind a row of bookshelves, almost like he lived there. Which it often felt like he did, except I knew that he had that beautiful home and garden out in possibly-maybe-Europe.
“Goodness gracious,” Mr. Brittle said, eyeing Ember, or rather, his burning head of hair suspiciously. “A fire sprite. In my library?”
“He’s cool,” I said. “I mean he’s good. I mean — you know what I mean. Don’t worry about it.”
After a quick round of introductions, I held my hand up, forever a student. “Alister? Shouldn’t we, you know, adjourn to a more private setting?” I smacked my lips unintentionally, my taste buds tickled by the promise of Earl Grey and cookies.
“No time for that now, I’m afraid.” Mr. Brittle squinted around us, like he was checking for someone who might be listening. “And besides, it’s raining in my garden.”
Ember cocked an eyebrow and nudged Satchel. “Is that code for something?”
Satchel shushed him. Mr. Brittle did the same, though the gesture wasn’t directed at either of them. If anything he was staring off into space, somewhat like he was shushing someone beyond our table.
I cupped my hand and held it to my ear, listening to the eerie unfamiliarity of the academy. No turning of pages from the other students, no creaking of old pipes in the walls, no breeze through the trees outside the windows.
Mr. Brittle had shushed the world itself.
“I try not to do it too often,” he explained, pulling up a chair. “Suffice to say, no one outside this circle will understand a word we exchange, no matter how hard they try.”
My hand went up, the annoying smart-ass side of me wanting to ask whether the same applied for anyone who could read lips. And then I realized that Mr. Brittle had said all that without moving his mouth. Localized telepathy, or something like it. Damn. Librarians really took their work seriously. Super impressive.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Mr. Brittle said, sliding the cursed parchment onto the table. “I shall keep things brief. I’ve continued my analysis and have arrived at a disturbing conclusion. Based on the origin of the ink and the animal hide used in this inscription, it appears that it must have been written by human hand.”
Even without the spell of silence, the boys and I would have been left speechless all the same. I slid my hand toward the parchment, then recoiled before I could even touch it. Satchel and Ember were both on their knees, peering curiously at the writing.
“But how?” I finally breathed.
Mr. Brittle shook his head. “That, I cannot say. It is not for humanity to understand the hidden tongue of the elements. The pattern carved into a tree struck by lightning, or the weathering of rocks eroded over centuries by the ocean waves. How does one capture any of that in words?”
