“You’ve gone quiet.” He quirks a brow.
“I’m considering it,” I respond. “It’s an unlikely theory, after all.”
“Is it? Come, Kyrith—may I call you Kyrith? We both know the Library is as sentient as you or I. It seems only logical that it would wait until it was certain that you could come into contact with six strong arcanists who share blood with both your murderers and the sacrifices, to attempt such a working. My grandson is the strongest Carlton in generations. Young Northcliff, too, from what I saw of him. His admission was when your cracking began, was it not?”
Magic. It makes sense.
The Arcanaeum may have needed more power to break the loop, but more precisely, it would’ve needed magic from each of the six families, because that’s what created it in the first place.
It breaks me a little inside as I realise this is why I can’t ever leave. Because the Arcanaeum only interrupted the ritual after it had absorbed my magic. Every time I attempt to walk out of one of the hundreds of doors, I’m literally trying to rip my very essence free of the building.
If the Library didn’t pull me back, I would die. I may even harm it in the process.
I should’ve realised. It seems so obvious now. I’ve always known we shared a magical well.
The Arcanaeum took the heirs’ magic and used it to break the loop. And for whatever reason, Benny and Piercechose to facilitate that. They could just as easily have never returned to the Library, leaving me caught in limbo. The Arcanaeum’s reserves would’ve slowly emptied, and who knows how many years would’ve passed before it could try again. How many more nights of reliving that awful blade sinking into my chest could I have endured without going insane?
I owe them, and I most certainly amnothappy about it.
“Why? Why would you help me?”
“Our goals align.” He sets his teacup down on the saucer. “Mathias is a threat to all Arcandom. Ever since you banished him, he’s been working to re-enter the Library. He’s been thwarted before, though mainly by pure luck. His previous allies have been less than subtle with their necromancy, and that has led to their downfall before he could use them.”
“Use them?”
Benny offers me a sad little smile. “To recover his lost property, of course.”
My stomach sinks. “He can’t enter?—”
“As long as the heart of the Arcanaeum is out of his reach.” Benny nods.
The heart… I frown thinking of the spire. “Surely he won’t get his hands on that.”
Stealing such a huge monument would be impractical, even for a powerful arcanist.
“It might’ve been harder while it was pinning you to that altar, but I can only assume the dagger is infinitely more transportable now it’s not frozen in a time loop.”
I lean back against the desk to disguise the way my knees buckle.
The dagger. I never even considered—I mean, who can blame me? I didn’t want to dwell on the weapon that murdered me. And the spire was so much more obvious.
A red herring in every sense of the word.
But I barely have time to absorb the revelation, because Benny frowns, examining his teacup with furrowed brows.
“I didn’t intend to reveal this much,” he muses. “Clever, to disguise the bitterness of a tongue-wagging potion with bergamot. I’ll have to remember that one.”
Pierce, however, is less blasé about the discovery. His cup slips from his hand, crashing onto the carpet with a muted thud. “You drugged us?!”
“Yes,” I admit. “I need to be certain where your allegiances lie.”
Benny holds an arm out, stopping his grandson’s advance mid-stride. “Well, that much is easily remedied. My one and only goal has always been the protection of my house and my grandchildren.”
“Even Anthea?” I challenge, remembering Pierce’s pernicious sister. “Is she another of your spies?”
He snorts. “No. Anthea is loyal to her mother. I’m certain she won’t thank me for my interference, and perhaps she’s beyond saving. Still, without optimism, life becomes terribly dull, wouldn’t you agree?”
I incline my head, trying to ignore the way Pierce’s anger is pulsing across the room.
