Page 18 of Court of Shadows
“Indeed. If you had known it existed,” he replied. “I wouldn’t let that knowledge go to your head, Louisa. As you discovered, there are dangers in this house, and I cannot promise that poking your nose into every corner and cranny will be good for your health.”
I thought at once of the large room upstairs, and the dark book that waited there, guarded by the shadowy Residents. My fingertips tingled at the memory, still burned from where I had touched the book, a touch that should have killed me but instead left only a permanent mark. That had been luck, really,and though I might never lose my inquisitiveness, it would be better to temper that curiosity with care. Accordingly, I took only a shallow step into the chamber, allowing Mr. Morningside to close the door behind us and stride into the unlit room.
He disappeared into the heavy swaths of shadow, and then I heard a crackle and a fireplace to my left filled with bright sapphire flames. The chill in the air lifted, and as Mr. Morningside made his way back to me, the candelabras on the wall blossomed with fire, too. The growing light revealed a large study, tidier than the upstairs library, with wall-to-wall shelves covered in all manner of antiques. I moved slowly along the wall toward the hearth, finding urns, daggers, dried flowers, a jar of teeth, and a tiny skull. Musical instruments I did not recognize, one like a flute but curved, and candles of every color, unlit but marked with runes and incantations. An unfinished portrait of four figures leaned against an ornate cupboard. The walls behind the shelves looked like those of a cave, as if this underground wonder had been scooped out of the earth ages ago. A charming collection of mismatched rugs was scattered across the bare earth floor, and the whole place smelled like cool, clean mud.
Mr. Morningside waited for me at a desk near the fireplace. A big, overstuffed chair was there, too, and he pulled it out, angling the fluffy seat toward me. He left the journal on the desk and crossed his arms, his foot tapping impatiently.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me not to touch anything inhere,” I said, taking the proffered chair.
“Oh no, Louisa, by all means, please go digging through my personal belongings,” he said with a snort. “Rummage at your own risk, but do try to remember that time is of the essence. Wouldn’t you like to free your friends sooner rather than later?”
He tapped the leather journal and pushed off from the desk, crossing briskly to the door. “I’ll tell Mrs. Haylam to leave some dinner outside the door if you disappear for too long. There should be fresh parchment and quills in the desk, but don’t be shy if you need replacements....”
“Wait,” I said, twisting in the chair. Mr. Morningside stopped in front of the door, his pointed chin turned toward me, one lock of black hair falling in front of his catlike eyes. “This place... The journal. Why do you trust me with these things? Poppy and Chijioke could help you. Or Mrs. Haylam. Why me?”
Laughing softly, he shook his head and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Poppy and Chijioke are not Changelings. Mrs. Haylam has the eyesight of a vole. A vole with one eye, even. You are uniquely suited to this task, and I do so love efficiency.”
That wasn’t good enough, and perhaps he sensed it, because he did not immediately leave.
“You really can’t do this yourself?” I asked, waving my hand over the journal. “That doesn’t seem right; after all, you’re the—”
“Iam many things, but I am not the right tool for the job,” heinterrupted, and now his impatience had returned. Mr. Morningside’s mouth curled, but not pleasantly, and he set his gaze on me like an accusatory finger. I felt suddenly cold inside again, blood turning to ice as it had at the sight of Finch and Sparrow.
“Besides, I need to make this house appear as if it all runs smoothly. There are extra eyes on us now. You’re special, whether you appreciate that fact or not,” he said, a desperate edge to his voice. “Dark Fae are special. I did not ask the others because they are not Changelings. Perhaps it’s for the best that you’re going to meet your father one day. Maybe when you meet him you will understand how few of you there are left, how spectacular your gift truly is.”
Chapter Twelve
It was almost impossible to work with my mind split in ten different directions. A part of me wanted to chase after Mr. Morningside and demand more answers from him, but I had made myself a promise, and fulfilling that promise would bring me answers, too. It would also, fortune allowing, provide a way to protect and free the people I had come to consider friends.
Indeed, if my blood father was also one of the Dark Fae, then he would have even more knowledge of our kind than Mr. Morningside. The thought spurred me, and invigorated what I already knew would be draining work. Using any kind of magic left one exhausted, and now I would have to fight off that tiredness to translate this odd journal. As indicated, there was plenty of parchment and ink for me to use, but first I would have to learn how to consistently harness my powers.One segment, I told myself,just translate one segment and Mr. Morningside will have to fulfill his end of the deal.
I reached for the journal and flipped it open to the first page. What was I expecting? No introduction. Nothing in English. The blocks of tiny snakes and waves and birds captured my imagination for a moment. What must it be like to think this way? To write not with words but images? Or maybe to theauthor, thesewerewords. Yet it seemed somehow more fluid, more emotional, than what I was accustomed to reading. Paragraphs of little images were followed with bigger sketches, and those I could decipher, no Changeling powers required. Mr. Morningside must have seen the sketches, too; perhaps that was what convinced him the journal was an artifact of interest.
As long as I stared at the snakes and rivers, they remained snakes and rivers. My focus was drifting. This was a dangerous room, filled with distractions. Concentration. Determination. I had a job to do. But how?
Apparently the key to unlocking my powers whenever I needed to was close at hand. My mind wandered, and as soon as it did, the anger quickly followed. While my eyes roved over curiosities and treasures amassed over who knew how long, my pulse quickened at the thought of owning such a place. And I might have. I might have done a great many things if I had been given the childhood and upbringing owed me by Croydon Frost.
Heat. A surge in the blood. There it was, that outrage, that fury, and the sound of thunder gathering in the back of my head. Just as steady was the flicker in front of my eyes as the tiny pictures became text. English words. My right hand sprang into action, hurrying to copy down the paragraphs as they came to new life in front of my eyes.
Well, that was one thing I could thank my blood fatherfor—he was an endless source of anger, and I would use that well until it dried, until he was standing before me ready to reveal what he knew.
But until then: the journal.
Year One
Journal of Bennu, Who Runs
Before, none of the books existed and none were required. I think I was a happy boy before the books, but afterward nothing was the same.
Meryt and Chryseis summoned me to the usual meeting spot, and I knew this was an unusual time. Our prayer hour was midnight, but the little spiny mouse had sneaked under the crackin my door, a note tied to a collar of beads about his neck, at just past dawn.
They needed me. It was time.
We met at the birthplace of the book. It had emerged from the water, slick but otherwise undamaged, and sat there like a stone baking in the sun. It had appeared the day the moon overtook the sun, in the last days of Akhet, while the river was swollen and overflowing. We had no word for what it was at first, its pages not papyrus but something smoother, the language inside a mystery to us all. Meryt said, let us call it “Spells” or “Book,” and we three agreed. If one of the gods had sent it, then surely it was filled with spells for us to one day learn.
My feet knew the path to the place by the water, and I slipped on silent, bare feet across the night-cooled sand to the grassier banks. A striped snake slithered along beside me, and then another, but I paid them no attention. Though a chill hung in the air before Apep could banish it, I felt hot with fear, and sweat dripped down my arms to my fingers.
Date palms sheltered the meeting place, fronds draped in front of a low stone hut no taller than a man. The snakes followed as I stepped into muddier terrain, the wet earth sucking at my feet as I dodged into the hut. The two women waited for me on their knees, their heads bowed over the book. It always looked shiny and slick, despite having been pulled from the river weeks ago. When we touched it, it felt like warm calfskin.
