It’s very rare that this happens, given that most arcanists enter the Arcanaeum and are given their cards as soon as the building accepts them, so I never considered it would be an issue.
Jasper has never been here as an adult.
Thankfully, because he’s already inside, I don’t have to touch him to allow the Arcanaeum to connect with him. The building rushes forth eagerly, like an excitable wave seeking the newness that accompanies every patron at their initiation. In fact, it’s a little too eager, because his card appears instantly, glowing in the space between us.
I let him examine it for a second, then wave it away, summoning a copy of the rules for him to look over. Usually, I prefer to do this at the desk, but I’ll make an exception. I’m not sure he should be spending time in the busy Rotunda being gawped at by the arcanists. His family should be told first.
Once that’s done, the Arcanaeum floats the book he was trying to grab earlier down to him, the pages flicking forwards until we reach the current generations.
Jasper’s soft gasp makes me consider the book as someone seeing it for the first time, and I suppress a small smile at the innocence of the noise.
The pages of the genealogy books are magically illuminated, each one covered in illustrations of golden trees, with portraits of each and every Carlton painstakingly drawn and meticulously dated. Facts and accomplishments swirl across the connecting branches, giving tiny teasing glimpses into each recorded life. Each link to one of the other families lists the exact volume and page number where the next branch can be found.
“Was there any particular reason you wanted to read this one?” I ask, although I suspect I already know the answer.
“I wondered if I’d recognise their names or faces.” His confession is barely a whisper. “I don’t think Dakari would approve, but if there’s a chance…”
He’s looking for his captors, for answers.
There’s an earnest kind of pleading in his eyes as he stares down at me, and I soften. “I understand.”
Perhaps too well. After I banished the magisters who killed me, I kept myself up to date with what they were doing and dug into their pasts. I don’t know what I was looking for—perhaps I hoped to find some karmic justice or traumatic history that might explain their actions.
I found nothing.
Sometimes people do detestable things, for no reason other than that they believe it serves a higher cause.
He’s clearly waiting for me to condemn his quest, but I’m not going to. Instead, I busy myself by turning away and casting a critical eye over the room. The decor in here is beginning to bore me. I’ll have to make some changes soon, especially if he’ll be up here for any length of time. Perhaps a pretty lamp in that corner, or a fern…
My distraction perks me up for the first time in a while, and I absently say, “I’ll leave you to it.”
Magic is stronger than the mind in most instances, but it won’t harm him to familiarise himself with the other families and the key players after so long away from the game.
“Hey, Kyrith?” His tentative call has me turning back to him.
“Yes?”
His fingers trace the pages, like he’s using the tactile contact to ground himself as he flounders for words.
“Which one are you in?” A blush tints his cheeks. “Please tell me it's not McKinley. It would kinda suck if…”
I raise a brow, waiting for him to finish his statement. His discomfort is endearing.
“I just mean—I wouldnae want to… I’m sure there are enough generations between us, but still… Incest isnae my thing?”
The last comes out as a question, and the books around us rustle with good humour.
“We’re not related,” I finally say, watching the tension drip from his shoulders. “You can continue to look, without fear for your morals… As will I.”
As if my invitation was all he was waiting for, those warm eyes travel up my body, lingering on my breasts for half a second before he swallows and meets my eyes.
Heat, embarrassment, and too much sugar-sweetness are all locked away in that angelic face. The kind that makes me want to give in and grant him what he’s silently asking for.
I can’t help but wonder if he’d kiss me politely, too. Would he say ‘aye mistress’ in that rich brogue the same way if I ordered him to get on his knees for me?
The moment lingers in the air between us, rich with potential. The Arcanaeum buzzing softly in anticipation…for something that can’t happen.
I deflate as I remember that, although we’ve both acknowledged this attraction, there’s nothing to be done about it.
