Page 77 of Ocean of Ink
Your memory made me smile. I can picture you and Finn in the tower so clearly, though it is difficult to imagine Finn being quiet.
All of my fondest memories are covered in the dust of grief after the loss of my brother, but I shall try to sweep one off for you.
When I was eight years of age, I got Tidesick. A healer from the local apothecary gave me this awful concoction to aid in my recovery, but I refused to take it. My mother told my nanny to make me drink it. They held me down and plugged my nose until I was forced to open my mouth.
I know this does not sound like a happy story thus far, but I promise it becomes one!
Heron came to my room a while after I had taken the tincture and brought me my favorite dessert, even though my mother said I wasn’t to have any sweets. Then he wrapped me up in blankets and helped me outside to sit beside the peonies whilehe read me a story from one of the adventure books in our library.
The next day, I was much improved. My mother told me it was the tincture, but I think it was Heron’s care for me. He always knew just what to do.
Thank you for encouraging me to share. Though it was difficult, it brought me joy to remember him.
Gratefully,
Wren
Wren nestled deeper beneath her covers while balancing her teacup in her palms. The warm liquid barely staved off the blistering cold outside. The weather had taken a turn during the night, going from cool to frigid. She was grateful it was Mira and she wasn’t required to leave the house or even her bed if she so desired.
The rim of the cup warmed her lips as she sipped her peppermint tea. Wren found herself up earlier than usual. She wouldn’t have bothered Blossom if not for her excessive shivering caused by the fire dying out. The young maid was quick to get a new fire kindled and left Wren with an entire pot of tea by her bedside, along with some crisp vanilla cookies. Breakfast wouldn’t be ready for some time, given the hour, so Wren was grateful for the refreshment.
Wren’s gaze traveled aimlessly around her room. With the entire house asleep and Blossom gone, Wren’s mind was quiet. A contented hum escaped her as she reached for a cookie to dip in her tea. The buttery sweet morsel was the perfect complement tothe soothing peppermint. Yes, she could stay in bed all day. Her gaze fell upon her desk. If not for the mission at hand, that is.
After writing to Castien about the memory of Heron yesterday, Wren had a renewed sense of purpose in uncovering the circumstances of his death. She could not waste her one day off by lounging about in bed, as much as she longed to. With a hefty sigh, she untangled herself from her sheets and scampered over to where Heron’s journal was locked away. She scrounged through the gowns and unlocked the jewelry box quickly, so as not to be out in the cold for long.
Journal obtained, she hurried back to bed and refreshed her tea. Wren held a cookie between her teeth as she wiggled back under the layers of quilts, then bit into it once she was settled, and caught the remainder in her hand. The dessert was a welcome treat in the face of her brother’s apparent madness. She flipped through pages and read words she had read hundreds of times already, hoping that something would make sense.
Wren found herself wishing she could share with Castien. His Gift would be a boon in this situation. She was certain he’d make everything out much faster than she. Her eyes traced a particularly confusing map. Wren had only managed to uncover the exit in the Wall thus far. That wasn’t so difficult once she had gotten used to navigating the grounds. But this map–if it even was one–made no sense. It looked more like a maze than directions to get to a location.
She turned the journal sideways to reorient the picture. Squinted. Turned the book again. It was only when she made the second turn that she noticed something she hadn’t before. In tiny slanted script at certain points on the map were numbers. The writing was so small it almost required a magnifying glass to see it. Wren set her tea down and brought the page closer to her face for a better look.
“One twenty-three,” she murmured to herself, then began flipping through the pages while counting under her breath.
Having reached the one hundred and twenty-third page, she read the contents. There were various snippets that seemed disjointed in nature, but one stood out to her.
Adira’s home holds many books, though one not often does a person look. Tug it thrice to break it free, then walk into a new world with glee.
Adira’s home…as in the House of Adira. Wren flipped back to the map. She sucked in a gasp. It wasunderground. The map was under her feet! She could see it now. The light outline of each of the buildings. The winding passageways beneath them. Numbers indicating entrance points. One of which was in her very house, if she had discerned her brother’s riddle correctly. She jumped out of bed and rushed to the hook on her powder room door that held her robe. After she had secured the belt around her waist, she went to her wardrobe and pulled her cloak free.
She had no plans of venturing into the passageways in such a state, but she could take advantage of the sleepy, dreary morning and see if the drawing room shelves possessed this hidden door. It was her first lead in so long, she couldn’t make herself wait for a later date. Her pulse beat to a reckless drum, increasing its frantic rhythm as she stored away the journal once more and headed for the door.
A low groaning creak echoed through the hall as Wren slowly opened her chamber door. She looked to her left, then her right, and–deeming the hall clear–ventured out on bare feet. Her excitement had derailed her from procuring footwear. She crept down the passage. Her ears strained to hear opposing footsteps. None came. Wren shivered as she walked into the grand foyer of the home. The further from her hearth she got, the more she regretted her manner of dress.
She persevered in spite of the house’s chilly embrace. Her steps were light as a quill feather, making nary a sound until she reached the drawing room door. Thankfully, it did not creak as hers had, and she was able to slip inside and shut it behind her without notice or noise.
The room was devoid of a fire, and Wren felt the lack of it. One glance out the window told her why the cold felt so severe. It had begun to snow. Such weather was not peculiar to Wren–she had endured many snow days back home–but the pattern of it on the Whispering Isle was more sporadic than she was accustomed. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her and walked to the nearest bookcase. Heron had not left any hints as to which book was correct, so Wren set to tugging on each one.
Dozens upon dozens of books later, Wren’s feet were numb and her fingers ached from the cold. Chills wracked her spine. She contemplated giving up as she stretched her stiff muscles up, up, up, to grasp a black leather book on the top shelf. A low click made her pause. Still on her tiptoes, she returned the book to its place, then tugged again. Another sound came, as if she were cranking some sort of mechanism. Once more, the book fell into her hand, causing her to stumble back slightly.
The bookshelf swayed inward, revealing a miniature drawing room of sorts. There was a singular chair, a table with an unlit lamp, and empty bookshelves. At first glance, this was all there was behind the shelf. But Wren knew better thanks to her brother’s map. She sank to her knees and felt around the floor for a latch or indentation. Her near-frozen fingertips caught on a lip that she struggled to gain purchase on.
“Tides-cursed, ridiculous thing,” she muttered.
Finally, Wren was able to get ahold of the wretched door and lift it up. She didn’t dare raise it more than a thumb’s width open. There was nothing but darkness to be seen, but still her heart leapt for joy. Another discovery! Progress might be slowerthan she’d like, but it was being made. She would discern the rest of her brother’s ramblings in due time and uncover his killer in the process. All she had to do was keep going.
She carefully returned the door to its rightful position, then rose from her knees, grasped the black book, and left the secret room. It took some effort to pull the shelf closed again, but she managed. She pushed up onto her toes once more and slid the book back in place until a click sounded out.
Upon this click, the drawing room door opened. Wren jumped, her low back ramming into a nearby card table and knocking over a vase of red roses.
