Page 7 of Liminal
In answer, I get a vision of the end of the Botanical Hall. A black door with a silver knocker, surrounded by ivy.
There are hundreds of entrances to the Arcanaeum now. Doors that have never opened, hidden between shelves. Doors which have been there for years, but which disappear when you look for them. Huge great doors separated by ornate trumeaus, and tiny doors that look like they belong in a fairy’s closet.
With a practised flick of my wrist, I mark my page, close the book on the desk in front of me, and will myself to the Botanical Hall. It’s not teleporting, so much as becoming one with theArcanaeum and then separating myself in a different location than where I started.
The knocking is louder in the hall, and the other patrons are doing their best to ignore it as they read in hushed silence, but they glance up when they feel me. Apparently, my presence brings a chill to the air, though I’ve never noticed it myself. A few of the patrons have curious stares—the ones who haven’t seen this play out before—but the majority have become so used to my presence that their focus never leaves their books.
As far as I know—and I know far more than most—I am the only one of my kind; a ghost tethered to a magical building. Over the centuries, I’ve pieced together what must have happened to me, but I haven’t shared the truth with anyone.
Many have asked, but explaining would tempt them to look deeper, and no good can come of that. All the patrons need to know is that I’m the Librarian.
The black door is settled between two brass-labelled shelves. The knocker, which is shaped like a two-headed snake, hammers non-stop against the glossy painted wood.
It’s hard to leave the Arcanaeum, even if it’s just to stand on the doorstep, so to speak. My mouth pinches with the effort as I flick the door open and pass through. Still, I can’t help looking around at the world beyond, absorbing all I can while I’m here.
The world outside changes so quickly.
I’ve emerged into a richly furnished house. Styles have changed a hundred times since I died, but money still speaks the same language. The study we’re in is minimalist, with bare metal shelves and a modern, matte black chandelier which reminds me oddly of a spider.
Fitting.
“Librarian.” The adept before the desk bows his head respectfully. “I’m here to petition for my son’s entry to the Arcanaeum.”
Sometimes I wonder if they use my title out of respect, or if his family has truly forgotten my name, just like everyone else. Sighing loses its impact when you can’t feel your breath whoosh out of you, but I still feel the urge to do it as I look Josef Ackland over from head to toe.
I forbade him entrance over three decades ago, when his father stood here and said the exact same words. Just last year, I denied entry to another Ackland cousin.
They still have the same proud brows andaquiline noses that Edmund and the magister possessed. Occasionally, one will pop up with the same brown eyes—so light they’re almost gold—which ages ago I was so enchanted by, though that feature remains rare.
Or perhaps, not so rare, I realise, as Josef’s son steps forward.
His golden eyes are narrowed with anger, locks of dark hair falling into them as he awaits my judgement. If the muscular cut of his body is any indication, he is neither a scholar nor interested in books, but I know why he’s here. Every single Ackland tries to gain entry at least once in their lives. It’s practically a tradition at this point, even for the least academic among them.
Only the Arcanaeum humming soothingly through my soul keeps me rooted in place under the force of his seething.
Not this one, I think to the library, though in truth I have no input on whether the Arcanaeum accepts someone or not. I would gladly have kept everyone but the liminals out of this place if I could, but it doesn’t work that way.
The other five families have all slowly wormed their way back inside, though it took some longer than others. Ackland is the last of the six great houses, and the most persistent. Their inability to access the Arcanaeum has left them weak in the eyes of their peers for centuries.
Time doesn’t matter to the Arcanaeum, and neither does my grudge. The great library judges what it sees in the applicant’s heart.
According to gossip—which I occasionally overhear, despite my reclusiveness—the Acklands have continued practising necromancy, focusing on it to the exclusion of the ten respectable schools of magic. Perhaps that’s why the Arcanaeum continues to refuse to issue any of them a library card.
Or perhaps it still remembers, as I do, the punch of a dagger sliding between my ribs and the sting of betrayal that accompanied it.
Quirking one brow, I extend my shimmering translucent hand towards this newest applicant, ignoring the resentful way he takes it in his own. The bluish-grey of my ghostly skin looks cold in comparison to the warm copper of his.
He winces at the chill which rolls off my spiritual form, so he misses the way my lips fall open in shock.
I canfeelhim.
It takes everything I have not to jerk away as the Arcanaeum studies him through the place where we’re joined. This—the feeling—has only happened a handful of times before. It’s not a spark, more like a…tingle. An echo that’s only remarkable because of the sensationless void I exist in.
The first time I experienced it was almost a decade ago, and since then, the man has graduated and become a collector, working for the Arcanaeum. I dismissed the entire contact as a figment of my imagination, because it didn’t happen again… Until seven years later. Even then, I wasn’t sure. I never saw that patron again after his introduction, anyway. Then, a year ago, it happened a third time.
After that, I researched, but despite his continued presence in the Arcanaeum, I’m too intimidated to try to replicate theexperiment. As for the fourth member of the exclusive club, well…touching him would only encourage him.
My thoughts break off as the Arcanaeum comes to a decision, and I snatch my hand away.
