A tug to my ponytail had me taking two steps back, then a nudge to my side sent me toward a desk in the middle of the room, about twenty paces away from the main reception desk. “Down you sit,” the deeper voice said. “And here you wait.”
Silence followed.
I swallowed. “Uh…”
“Patience, virtuous one,” one of them whispered, scattering goose bumps down my neck.
Then a book landed heavily in front of me, the leather binding worn and clearly well used.
I gazed at the large volume, tracing my fingers along the leather binding. It was worn but beautiful. Soft. There was something… ancient about it that demanded reverence. I was almost afraid to open it. It seemed too powerful, too old.
The figments had gone silent as though they held their breath.
Then I realized I was the one holding my breath, my fingers itching to open the book but an irrational fear at the back of my brain telling me that with my luck, it was a trap.
The Warden had warned me not to interact with the figments. If he truly valued my survival, no matter his motives, what would happen if I opened it? Why were the figments so focused on this book?
“What’s she waiting for?” one complained.
“Yes. Too long.”
“I hate suspense,” another agreed.
A nudge at my elbow warned me that the figments were growing impatient, but something about this book called to me. I often listened to my instincts, and my instincts told me that learning more about this world was what would help me survive.
And sometimes gaining knowledge meant taking chances.
Biting my lip, I slipped my index finger under the worn cover and carefully flipped it open.
The front page was blank.
“What does it say?” one asked with excitement.
“Oh, please read it to us!” another exclaimed.
Hmm, maybe the figments were just bored and were hoping I’d read them a story, but this was the wrong book for that.
A blank page stared back at me, and I considered it as I ran my fingers over the soft paper, jolting whenpowerslipped through my veins.
Words appeared, scrolling across the page as if written with wet ink.
“Leges de Virtuouso Attingas Parvulorum,”I whispered, recognizing the Latin context for Laws of the Old Ones. But…Virtuouso.That wasn’t a word I recognized—certainly not Latin, anyway.
The figments whispered with excitement in a language I didn’t understand. But I caught the awe in their tones. I looked around, wishing I could see them. “What? What is it?”
They quieted. One spoke with a nudge that was gentler this time. “Read, dear one.Read.”
“Leave her to it,” one suggested.
“Yes, she must learn,” another said.
The air rustled around me, and in the next moment, the weight in the air lifted, suggesting that I was truly alone now.
I frowned. If the figments didn’t want me to read to them, then what had them so excited?
Shaking my head, I turned back to the book and lost myself in the pages. As I flipped through them, Latin-esque words scrolled across the paper, only to reform into English as I read. Unlike the title, the book seemed to be able to adapt to my native language.
It didn’t make it any easier to read. The pages sprawled with laws and rules, customs and declarations that fascinated me. Absorbing the complex content, I almost forgot what information I was after.
