Enach tutted. “Come, then. This is all the more reason to get him back home. I’ll take you to the healer this afternoon, Ains.”
Honey gave Ainsworth’s shoulder a meaningful squeeze. It was as though she did not want to let him go. He was reminded of the dream dragon’s clutch—safe, warm, wanted.
But she did let him go, and he laughed his dizzy spell off and insisted that he was fine—all the while feeling lost before Enach took his hand and, finally, led him away from the Misnich Inn. With Enach lingering, his final farewell to Honey had consisted of a mere quick embrace with few words exchanged between them, and Ainsworth could not bring himself to look back during the steep hike to the Transportation Circle, even though the inn was in full view below.
The circle itself, he had to admit, was neat work, and proved a brief distraction from his discomfort. The circle and Enach’s ward marks were like a constellation burned into the ground. Sparks flew as Enach lifted a hand against the magical barrier that permitted entry for those who had paid a fee for admittance. Enach, as administrator, would now forever travel freely through this one, and the magic granted access to Ainsworth, too.
Ainsworth took a deep breath and stepped into it before he could change his mind. His stomach lurched, and it swallowed himup.
It had been some time since Ainsworth had used a Transportation Circle, but never before had he felt like his passage was somehow hangover-inducing. The trip had felt less seamless than usual, too, as though he had smacked hard against a transparent wall before, begrudgingly, the magic allowed him passage from the inn to its main link in Wenslykirk, and then sent them off to Hinslyth.
“Let us get you home, my dear,” Enach said soothingly as they stumbled from the Hinslyth Transport Office, his deft handling of their arrival paperwork giving Ainsworth time to compose himself.
His dizziness persisted as they took their first steps on Hinslyth’s cobbled streets. Despite his conflicted feelings over his relationship with Enach these past few months, and his surprising fondness for the remote wilderness of the inn, Ainsworth felt the hint ofhomeunder his feet. His parents had urged him to leave his life behind to pursue his dreams, and even before they both died he had felt the guilt-laden love of this huge city. He had been warned it might chew him up and spit him out, and he had worked tremendously hard to get it to accept and embrace him.
They were heading, Ainsworth assumed, to his room in the Scholar Quarters, in a building south of the main Skarrow Library tower. They traversed the bustling street known as the Royal Stretch, and Ainsworth was suddenly a trembling boy with a scholarship again, intimidated by the looming sandstone buildings and the sheer number of people going about their business—a stark contrast with the peaceful goings-on of his previous surroundings. “I won’t need a healer, I think,” Ainsworth said as they passed his favorite bakery—though there would be no orradan cakes inside, he reflected sadly. “Perhaps just a pause for food?”
Enach laughed, taking his hand. “I thought as much. All you need is some fine food and some finer company. After months of neither of those things, I would be feeling a little off myself.”
“Ah, well, I wouldn’t put it that way…” Ainsworth said, but if Enach heard him he did not react, and they continuedon.
Returning to the Scholar Quarters was a more lively affair than Ainsworth had expected. He received many joyful exclamations at his return from both friends and colleagues who were lingering over breakfast before heading to teach classes or bury themselves in the archives. It baffled him, but he realized he could now distinguish between those who were genuinely pleased to see him and those who clearly just wanted an account of where he’d been and the status of his “exciting new project.”
“I’ll save you a desk in the reading room, Ainsworth?” chirped one of his first friends at the institution—Jura, a selkie, whose research was mostly to do with urban marine life in the coastal cities. Apparently she, too, had just returned from fieldwork and was to begin her project write-up.
“Sadly, not today, Jura. I need to make arrangements to visit Lyria and discuss my next steps.” He also privately reflected that he had written up most of what he could so far—a vivid description of the inn, its history, and the surrounding landscape; notes for a cartographer and illustrator based on his trips to the standing stones; and his speculation regarding the dragon’s curse. What he needed was his mentor’s advice on how to proceed—to help him determine where the project could go next. There was nothing more rewarding than bouncing ideas off Lyria. She had a truly brilliant mind and was always able to set him in the right direction—though never by simply telling him what to do, but rather by helping him see the right paths to take.
Finally, they reached his room, and Enach paused by Ainsworth’s door. “I need to check in with one of my co-authors for a funding application we’re writing. You’ll be fine, yes? I’ll meet you here before sunset to take you to dinner. Oh, and”—he said before he turned to leave—“welcome home, Ains.”
Enach leaned in to kiss Ainsworth’s cheek, and suddenly Ainsworth felt awash with guilt. What had he been doing all these months, not writing to Enach? Thinking their relationship was over, that Enach did not love him…
As if Enach read the guilt on his face, or perhaps felt the heat ofit on Ainsworth’s cheek, he added: “Do you know how much I hated to hear that fiendish innkeeper call youthat? As if any of those people were good enough to scrape the dirt from your shoes, never mind call you whatIcall you.”
Rage burned within Ainsworth, but he held it back. He was desperate to be alone, and the quickest way to achieve that was to let Enach get away with his comment. Indeed, Enach strolled away, satisfied with the sharp edge of his remark.
Ainsworth fumbled with his keys and stepped into his room. Sunlight streamed through his solitary window in bright rays, revealing the dustiness of the room as his steps disturbed the still, neglected air. He mustered the energy to open the window before retreating to his bed. When he sat down, a whiff of dust rose and made him sneeze. He looked up at the shelf on the opposite wall and saw that the small potted ivy there had long since withered and died. He hadn’t been able to ask anyone to water it before he left, owing to the circumstances.
The sight of it was too much. He placed his hands over his face and wept.
Chapter 25
After he had composed himself—although he could not bring himself to unpack—Ainsworth took a walk to clear his head and find something to eat before meeting with Lyria. As he crossed the Skarrow grounds, he politely deflected the occasional overeager colleague keen to hear about his work and instead hurried toward the city streets, hoping to lose himself in the crowds.
The cobbles beneath his feet almost tripped him, and he wondered when the rough, rocky terrain of the mountains had become easier to traverse than Hinslyth’s pavements. He had thought he would find comfort among the towering buildings, with their elegant taverns and shopfronts that held his favorite foods, drinks, clothing, and supplies, but suddenly everything seemed to be closing in. The walls of each establishment were more formidable than the slopes of Mount Vengeance, and the air—he could not ignore the way it seemed to clog his throat, laden as it was with the essence of a city that reached to claim him once again. He pulled Honey’s scarf up higher around his neck, burying his nose in the fabric and savoring the lingering scent of the inn as he did so, as though it were a barrier against the air of the city.
He clutched his chest and felt every eye upon him. His hair was still unruly, his clothes shabby and worn, and even if he had wanted to step inside the places he had spent so much time and coin inthese past few years, he did not think he would be welcome. He was not wearing his Skarrow cloak, and he was not used to such disdainful looks from those in the streets. But why? He was still the same Ainsworth, was he not?
Despite his desperate need for some new clothes and a meal, Ainsworth did not stop. He continued on, the sun reaching toward noon before he arrived at the River Etivon, which cut the city neatly in half, and crossed the grand, stone bridge across it. His ankle was throbbing at this point, and he felt the wounds seeping through their dressing, but he could not stop—even though he had no clue what he was seeking. He only knew that he had not yet experienced feeling fully athomeand was set on taking in as much of the city as he could until he feltit.
Ainsworth only started to slow when the streets became more broken, the pavements cracked and neglected. The buildings here had a sheen of green across their stone, and Ainsworth was soon faced with an old, cracked sign, welcoming him to Brinequarter—the district in which he had first lived when he arrived in Hinslyth.
His feet found their way to his old boardinghouse. Black, scorched stone from a fire long before Ainsworth arrived had still not been cleaned away, and he smiled as he saw the window of his old room thrown open, a figure breathing in the fresh(ish) air of the day. He hoped the new resident was admiring the changes a young Ainsworth had insisted on making with the landlord before he left—including a mattress that was not infested with all manner of mites.
Ainsworth’s scholarship for the duration of his student days had covered accommodation costs, yes—but not enough to reside in or near the Skarrow Library grounds. Upon his arrival, he had been unaware of the way the city had been split up—of how some individuals perceived certain areas as prestigious and others like dirt to be scraped from a shoe. To Ainsworth, the city was the city. It was larger than his village, and he had basked in the pride of earning his place within it, never doubting that he would be accepted. But when he told a classmate where he lived during those early days, and was met with astonished and hurtful laughter, he quickly startedto learn. He learned how to hide where he came from and how he spent his summers—never admitting they were mostly spent working endless days and nights in the warehouse around the corner from where he now stood, all so he could move closer to the Skarrow Library in his second year. He learned how to mold his voice, his opinions, his personality—to blend in among the upper echelons of his classmates in order to rise up with them.
He had learned a lot during his years at the Skarrow Library, but these were the lessons he was now starting to regret.
Head spinning, he told himself it was mere lightheadedness due to hunger. It was then he sensed a familiar scent in the air, and he realized he had arrived on market day. His heart leapt in anticipation as he made his way to the small square in the center of the Brinequarter neighborhood, and he was met with a scene far grander than he remembered—more stalls with brightly colored signage had appeared, and not all selling food as they had in his day. It had been such a long time since he had visited, and he wished he had more time to admire the books, clothes, and trinkets he knew Honey would adore. But he soon found the stall he was seeking.
