Page 42 of Ocean of Ink
That singular ability had vanished in the face of Castien Valengard. All Wren felt were her own emotions, a rarity she was only gifted with when alone. This ripped away the shackles she had been locked in since she was ten years of age, and shesuccumbed to a giddy recklessness that resulted in a debate with the man who might have had a hand in her brother’s murder.
Castien opened the door at the apex of the stairs. Amber light spilled into the fog and bathed his figure in golden hues. Even in his academy uniform, he managed to look as royal as his station dictated. He stood tall, with a smug expression that indicated he believed he had bested Wren in their discussion. His black curls had become wild after the walk in the misty wind, yet Wren could still easily picture a crown nestled in them.
She passed by him and over the threshold, into the warmth of the Obsidian Library. Her shackles were clipped on once more. The weight of all the emotions of those milling about felt heavier than usual after her taste of freedom.
“Follow me.” Castien’s tone was naturally commanding without the need to raise or deepen his voice. Wren’s instinct was to rebel, but her hope of his taking her somewhere the emotions of others couldn’t reach overwhelmed the mutinous reaction.
She obeyed, and they wound through bookcases while burning lanterns swayed overhead. Wren caught several students peeking over their open tomes to catch a glimpse of her and Castien passing. Eyes flashed in the spaces between books. Less subtle students tipped their heads around corners to stare. One of which was Callalily, who did her best to hide when caught, but failed. Wren hoped the woman would learn to be more tactful.
“Your presence has garnered the attention of the whole island,” Castien commented as they turned into a portion of the library that lacked light and people.
Wren’s self-preservation battled with the newfound addiction to the emotional quiet she felt around him. Ivanhild would be furious if he saw them. Wren reasoned with herself that if Castien wanted to kill her, he wouldn’t do so in the library. Even the most secluded of areas still had the chance of being seen.
“Perhaps it is your rank that draws their eyes,” Wren retorted.
“You think that’s why they watch me?”
“Do you not?”
She caught a flash of his smirk as he turned another corner. He led them to a table in an alcove with no windows. There was no one in proximity, and Wren breathed easier as the roar of emotions dissipated. A scratching sound preceded a flash of light as Castien lit a candle atop the table. It was necessary, for there was only a singular sconce lit, and it would be difficult to write in such conditions. Wren had done so many times before, but it was a strain on her eyes.
Castien opened the flap of his bag and pulled out a black journal, matching black feather quill, and a pot of ink. Wren followed suit, though her journal was a rose color, and her quill a white feather that had been dyed purple. She set out inkpots of three different colors, unsure of what mood would strike her when it came time to write.
The two sat across from one another and opened their journals, behavior unwittingly synchronous. Wren watched Castien’s expression in the flickering light. She felt as though she had lived the past ten years in a raucous ballroom and had stepped out onto the balcony for the first time. The quiet enveloped her like a warm hug. She had felt this peace during the quiet hours of the night, or when she snuck into the forest surrounding her family estate. But she was never allowed this luxury around another person. It was both frightening and intoxicating.
“If you are through staring at me, we should begin,” Castien said in an amused tone.
Had she felt his mirth, or was that simply a habit of associating feeling with inflection? She paused and waited for the sensation to come.Nothing. Nothing but her own giddiness cresting like a wave within her chest.
“I was not staring,” Wren said after she attempted to gather her wits. There was a job to be done. She need not waste time. “I was observing for the paper.”
“Oh?” His right brow rose. “And what did you observe?”
“I think I will save my sentiments for the essay,” Wren replied with a saccharine smile.
She was about to ask the first question, but Castien beat her to it.
“What is your Gift?”
The sudden nature of the question caught her off guard. She had anticipated one of the simpler topics to come first. It was no matter, though. Wren had rehearsed her answer for years.
“I am a storyteller, or writer, whichever you prefer.”
Her inability to read his emotions became dangerous now. She couldn’t gauge his reaction by anything other than his body language, which gave little away, especially since Wren was unaccustomed to having to read behavior.
“What does that encompass?” Castien asked as he dipped his quill in ink as black as night.
“I am able to capture the details of an event as though I were there.”
Wren kept her answers as vague as possible. She had heard many rumors about Castien’s Gift allowing him to see things others could not. She would have to be incredibly cautious so as not to give anything away that could lead him to the truth.
“So your Gift applies only to historical events?”
She hesitated. Her ‘Gift’ had been nurtured by her brother through fiction first, until her father decided that it was more productive for Wren to be a historian rather than a novelist or poet. Wren believed that her father did so because he was disappointed in her Gift in comparison to Heron’s swordsmanship.
“I am talented in other subjects as well, but I have spent the past several years as a historian’s apprentice, so that is where my specialty lies.”
Castien’s quill scratched against the paper. His script was messier than she expected it to be, given his rank. A sudden ache bloomed in her chest as she was reminded of her brother’s scrawling hand. She looked down at her blank page and blinked away the rising sensation of tears.
