He wasn’t smiling any longer. Instead he didn’t move, waiting for more. “And when did I begin annotating poetry, then?”
A flash of heat bloomed over my cheeks.
“At what point in this decently accurate retelling of my life did I pick up a pen and write in the margins of poetry books, Reshina?”
I locked my jaw, shaking my head slowly.
“I read a book once,” he began, rubbing his chin. “I found it after a night of debauchery. Hungover, sore, contemplating how every day and every night of my life blended from one to the other. My father had great sums of money from taxing his people, you see. He was good at that. And when he was human, he was good at getting people to do what he wanted. But he couldn’t spend his marks on anything but fine furnishings here and there—a statue of himself and the comforts my mother needed. So I had more marks than I could ever spend, but four of them I spent on a book that could fit into my vest pocket.
“I don’t know what led me into that shop or why I was drawn to such a small book, but I bought it, sat on the bench outside in the winter cold and read it cover to cover.”
My heart pounded. I’d penned that book so long ago, copies were bound to be made, but I had no way of tracking how many or where they’d gone.
“I left the bench and picked up a chocolate croissant on the way back to my flat. And do you know what I did when I got there?”
I stared, daring him to go on.
He moved closer, my own feet following until I could reach out and touch him if I’d wanted to.
“I read it again. The next morning, I took a walk, replaying the words—the story of a Goddess and what became of her once she’d been cursed at sixteen years of age. I didn’t go out thatnight. Or the next. Instead, I found myself back in that bookshop, asking for more. When the clerk explained there wasn’t any, I turned to other books instead.”
“You fell in love with the written word.”
“I did. But not just any. For the first time in my life, I found purpose in more than just what was expected of me. More than a quick fling or another ball for some duchess or princess. I found that there were books I enjoyed and books I hated. Books I wanted to write my thoughts in and books I flung across the room in disgust or apathy. But that first story. That one, I returned to time and again.”
I blushed for the second time, unaccustomed to it and dropping my head. “How interesting for you that you should capture the author into your curse.”
A hand, smooth and strong, lifted my chin. His voice dropped low, as he shook his head. “Interesting is not the word I would use.”
I was never a woman to back away from a man, but I did then. Out of his grasp—out of the reach of his fingers that grazed over my skin, sending chills up my spine. “Well,” I started, pulling at the sleeves of my jacket that was once his. “We seem to have a better understanding of each other. May I see what’s behind these doors?”
He dropped his hand, turning to them. “The thing about owning a flat in Riche is that they aren’t built to hold the collection of a true reader. So, as my mother’s health declined and I came to accept the curse that would befall me, I sent my collection here. Where it grew.”
He pushed hard on the twin doors. Brilliant light filled the room and I shielded my eyes. I gasped at the sight, for we entered a massive round room with bookshelves rising to the domed ceiling where the shelves curved along the detailed architecture in dark wood. A glass dome above saturated the room with the light of the winter sun. Several ladders lined the wallson golden metal rails. Fine chairs and small couches were placed over woven rugs, giving the circular room a cozy aura. A great black stone fireplace curved between the bookcases opposite the entrance and Arthur headed toward it, adding a few more logs, encouraging the flames to rise higher in the grate.
I stepped forward in awe of the library, having seen many in my lifetime, but none as impressive as this. I squinted in the light, rising on my wings to get a better look at the books lining the ceiling.
Each was nestled into a bookcase with a lip of wood so the books would not fall from the rich walnut cases. On closer inspection, dainty flourishes and fat babies with wings had been carved into the bookcases, often depicted with bows and arrows. I lifted one book, then two, bringing them back down to the main floor, where I sat on an emerald green settee, carefully opening the pages, searching for his marks in them.
“How do you reach the ones on the curved ceiling?” I asked, setting the book aside when I found he had not written inside it.
“When I brought most of these books to Heartstone, I had Piffle place the ones I liked the least up there. He occasionally transforms into a hawk to retrieve them for me.”
I set the other two aside, more curious about the books Arthur did enjoy. Beginning at the door to the left of the entrance, I traced my fingers over countless spines of deep burgundies, royal blues, earthen browns, and forest greens. I circled the room, pondering where to even begin when he stepped in front of my path.
“This library is yours as well. You may come whenever you’d like. You may take whichever books you wish back with you to your room. Any others you’d like to add to the collection, you only need to ask Piffle and he shall see to it when he arrives in town weekly.”
I took another look around. There were thousands of books on the shelves with more piled on small tables and a desk nearthe fireplace. “How could I ask for more books than these? I’ll never be able to read them all in such a short time.”
“Reshina.” I met his eyes. “If I were dead, these would all be yours. I have no heir to leave them to. Piffle has no desire for any but a few to remind him of the man he once knew. These books are yours now. I am giving them to you. You need only take my life and you may claim them.”
A short laugh escaped me. “Are you bribing me with a curated library in order to kill you?”
“If it works,” he said with a beastly grin.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to read instead of spilling your blood all over these fine carpets. Now kindly direct me to your books on the history of faekind.”
Arthur was well versedin the eons of the fae in Revelry. The two stacks of books he pulled were just from what he could remember he had off the top of his head, claiming he would need to search through his detailed log of every book in the library and the books he needed to re-shelve from his rooms.
