Page 21 of The Court of Venus

I surfaced from memory, twisting the silk sheets I lay on. It was so easy, so tempting, to linger in the past. But there were also moments I couldn’t bear to relive.

Was The Celestial Bodies still in the king’s library, or had Prospero’s masterwork been cast into the fire when he died? For the book was Prospero’s mind—curious, limitless. Inside it, he lived eternal. If my hands traced those pages, it may as well have been the threads of his brain. And I needed his brain right now if I was to survive against the Marsborn. Every time I thought of her, my heart sped with panic.

When I lived here, the library shelves were crammed with Prospero’s research. But as I searched the stacks, pulling out tome after dusty tome, I could find nothing at all. No familiar spines. There was only The Stellarium, written by a Saturnborn named Valdes. Inside was nothing detailed on the individual planets, only pages and pages predicting various cataclysms from peasant uprisings to plague. I tossed it aside.

It was then that I heard hushed voices. The hearth crackled as I crouched in the depths of the library stacks, the whispers drawing closer to where I hid.

It was Roland and Queen Cecily. And tucked beneath Roland’s elbow was the faded leather of The Celestial Bodies. I had never seen him willingly reach for it in his entire life.

In the candlelight, they regarded each other. I wondered: Was intention treason? Her mouth, so close to his? If only I could warn her that lust was a failure of strategy. Even though the queen and I were close in age, both twenty-two, I felt superior in my restraint. Years ago, my breath would have hitched to have his lips so close. I would have caught on fire; I would have lit the candle myself. Not anymore.

“—if I could,” Roland was saying.

“Why must you compete? I could not bear it if you were hurt.”

I nearly rolled my eyes as I peered through the bookcase, shifting heavy volumes aside to see better.

Cecily’s voice was faint, so I transformed one of my ears into a bat’s to hear her more clearly. I caught: “—tell the king.”

“No! Do not tell Richard anything unless you are certain.”

“After I have his son, won’t it be easier for me to do as I like?”

“Cecily,” said Roland gently. “You will never be able to do as you like.” The tone of his voice was like a door closing.

She blinked in confusion. Her hand lifted off his arm. Without another word, she swept up her gown in one hand and stormed from the library.

He watched her leave, then sighed, and after several moments he sat at one of the long oak tables in the center of the library.

Prospero’s book was still tucked beneath his arm. I considered asking him for it outright. Or I could wait for him to fall asleep and steal it. But sleep had never taken Roland easily, and he looked as though he’d be awake for a long while.

He tore a hand through his hair. On the table beside him was a bronze armillary sphere. Its oscillating metal rings tracked celestial movements. He spun it absentmindedly, moving from sunrise to sunset in a single thrust. Then, as if resolved, he reached for a fresh piece of parchment, dipped his pen in ink, and drew a star chart. I balanced on my toes to see.

It was one I recognized intimately: the planets at the moment of my birth, an alignment so striking it swept magic into my veins, just as it did him.

He bit his lip, twirling his quill pen through his fingers. Staring down at Venus, his own ruler, he drew circles around the planet’s glyph. Prospero would say that such a placement would suggest I’d make a good marriage, but we all read charts differently. Roland was theatrical. He’d predict I was destined for an enduring, passionate love.

He blew on the ink so it would dry quickly, then folded up the parchment, drumming his fingers against the desk. Pen dipped in ink again. He tackled a large stack of the king’s petitions next, melting wax and drizzling it over a folded letter, stamping his ring into the center. The candles melted down to stubs, the wax pooling in their silver bowls, as he scratched his signature over and over. Only when the stack was considerably smaller did he finally pry open The Celestial Bodies. My toes ached from holding my weight as I peered over his shoulder.

He was flipping through a section I didn’t recognize.

The pages were stark white, undyed. Prospero’s scrawl was surrounded by frantic sketches. A strange word scribbled over and over again: Exaltation.

Roland eventually leaned his head back, set the heavy tome over his eyes, and groaned, long and slow, into the pages.

I slid down from my perch and curled around him, pressing one hand against his shoulder blade. Beneath the book, his breath hitched. “Scream, and I’ll put you to sleep, wear your face, and tell your guards nothing at all is the matter.”

“A voyeur, are you?” With his free hand, he set the tome down, blinking up at me with clashing respect and frustration.

“Not in the slightest. I just need this.” I released him and lunged for the book, but Roland snatched it up first, twisting it out of reach.

“This is mine. Seized by me, after Prospero’s arrest. And I’m afraid I have my own research to do tonight.” He smiled dismissively.

He’d always felt too much and too openly, in such warring extremities, and so he didn’t notice when I snuck into his head. Subdued and calm, he held the book out to me. Eager, now, to help, to be useful.

Then he shook himself, eyes clearing, and when he smiled again it was as slowly as a bow being drawn.

“Try that again,” he warned, “and I’ll have you banished from court. Though you’ll just slink in here as a serpent and steal this anyway, won’t you? I’m curious. When you’re a snake, do you feel every little thing along your body?”