The hallway in the library is riddled with materialized ghosts. They gather in small groups, some talking about the weather and some about the poor selection of books in this century. As we walk by, my anchored ghost sighs.
“What?” I ask.
The dead complain more than the living.
“I suppose they lament the life they wish they had,” I say honestly. A few translucent faces turn my way, and I hurry past them.
Materialized ghosts tend to think themselves above the rest of us normal ghosts. They forget they are dead, sometimes. And it helps not having to worry about conduits or expulsion.
“Is that something you worry about?” I ask. If she did worry about either, she must know that I would never expel her. She’s the reason I was even able to bring Beau and Victor back; she is an excellent homework resource; and she feels more and more like a friend.
No. If you wanted to expel me, you would have a while ago.
I bite down a smile as I continue my walk.
Instead of going to my room to wallow about Sylas, I’m heading straight to the library, where I’m hoping the books might tell me more about heirloom relics. I didn’t come to Gorhail to find friends or… Sylas. I do not have much lifeblood left, and the killer might come after me any moment, so why would I spend my remaining time thinking about a man who probably hates me instead of focusing on uncovering the murderer?
Four hundred years, and Aspieri are still ever so pompous.The anchored ghost is probably talking about Overseer Paltro.And they wonder why no one likes them.
“Why are you so reclusive?” I ask the ghost as I push through the oak door of the library.
I don’t like people.A pause.When you live in solitude for so long, you get used to it.
“Why did you anchor to me then?”
No answer.
Every step I take wraps me with the smell of old books. Rows and rows of bookshelves line the walls. In the middle are study desks, arranged next to one another, most empty. I suppose most people don’t like to study at the crack of dawn—mages and nonmagi alike.
Gorhail’s library is six stories tall, three times the size of our library back in Albion. When I was little, Nan used to take me there every Saturday, while Mother took Olivia to the playground. We’d always pick two books, and I’d read one to her every afternoon in her garden, and the other she’d read to me before bed at night.
“Hello,” a soft, weary voice speaks.
I look around, and the welcome desk is empty. For a second, I think it’s a ghost, but a chair scrapes against the wooden floor, and my eyes fall on an old lady, perhaps in her eighties. She stands, and I immediately reach forward to help her.
Laughing, she pats my hand twice. “You remind me of your mother.”
“I do?” No one’s ever told me that before, and I’m not sure it’s a compliment, knowing my mother. But I’m not about to argue with this sweet old lady smiling at me. Did she meet Mother when she came to visit my father at Gorhail? Was she a different person then?
“I’m Zoya, the custodian of the library.” She shakes my hand.
I smile, pressing my other hand over hers. Is this what Nan would’ve looked like today if she were still around? Would she have taken me to the library and taught me about magic? I would have loved to learn from her.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are, Viola.” She gently lowers herself back into her seat. “How may I be of assistance today?”
“I am looking for books on relics.”
She directs me to the third floor and makes me promise to visit often. If my life wasn’t hanging by a thread, I would’ve honored that promise. Every day. I’d ask her to tell me about Nan when she was dean of Gorhail, for stories about Olivia from her time here, and even if she knew my father. Grief crawls around my heart again, every memory of all the people I’ve lost clutching it tighter.
The third floor opens to a large seating area. Empty, as expected. Zoya told me I’d find books on relics on the last three bookcases to my right, so I make my way down until I reach the very last bookcase. Built in the wall, it’s narrowly stacked with books, and six shelves taller than me.
If you must know, I anchored to you because you listened to my song, the ghost finally answers.
I smile as I run my hands across the worn spines of the books. For the first time, I wonder if I made a mistake, running away from my magic. If it had been me instead of Olivia, would I have been able to defend myself?
A thick tome sits in the middle of the shelf, sandwiched between two brand-new editions of textbooks Lorne dumped in my room the other day. My hands wrap around the soft leather of the book, and I run my fingers over the gilded edges until they stop on the fabric bookmark.DeathMagic, or a Life of Servitudeby Isobel Corvi opens on the title page, as if it wanted to be found.