Page 39

Her eyes lift to meet mine, the color of green sea glass worn smooth by tide and time. Her skin is pale from a life spent in lanternlight, far from the sunny docks.

“Neressa,” she says, a smile touching her lips. “What are you in the mood for today?”

“Morning, Mireille,” I say quietly. “What I’m looking for… I don’t want anyone else to know.” I reach for a book on sea creatures of the deep, brushing my fingers over its spine. Dust coats the cover, and I wipe it clean with the edge of my sleeve before setting it with care back in its place.

“As always,” she replies with a slight knowing smile. “How can I help?” We’ve built a level of trust over the years, an unspoken understanding. Questions asked without judgment. Answers given without gossip. And secrecy without a bargain. She’s known me for most of my life. Being women on a male-dominated island is hard, so having someone to trust, someone with knowledge beyond belief, makes our relationship that much more important.

I lean against the wooden desk stacked with books, stepping close to make sure no one else can hear what I’m asking for. “I need everything you have on healers.” The shift is subtle, but I see her expression tighten just slightly. Her eyes flick to the shelves around us, scanning as if the word itself might summon unwanted ears. I have always had an inkling that she’s here because she’s one with the books. Like they can talk to her. Some sort of magical power between them. It’s not the wildest hypothesis. There’s magic of every kind in this world, so much of it unknown. But gods, what an incredible form of magic to possess.

“Fiction,” she asks carefully, “or history?” A good question.

“History,” I answer. I lower the hood of my cloak as I say it, letting the shadows fall away from my face. No need to look like I’m about to spill blood in her sanctuary.

She studies me for a heartbeat longer, then nods. Without another word, she steps out from behind the counter and disappears between the towering shelves. The library swallows her whole, her braids disappearing like the last pull of a retreating tide.

Moments later, she returns carrying three books stacked in her arms.

“Well,” Mireille says carefully, eyes lowering to the thin volumes in her hands, “if you’re searching for this sort of information, then you already know there isn’t much.” Her fingers trace the worn edges of the covers. “They are rare beings.” A pause. “So rare that even these are debated as fiction. Histories blurred into legend.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “Take what you will with a grain of salt.”

“I know. Thank you, Mireille.” She hands the books to me slowly, and I take them from her with equal care. “I won’t be checking them out,” I add. “I’ll stay here and read for a while.” The last thing I need is for anyone to wonder why I have books about healers in my possession. The less I’m seen researching ancient beings, the better. She nods once and makes her way back to the counter, her plum-colored dress sweeping over the old wooden floor as she moves unhurried.

For a moment, I watch her. In another life, I think, I would have liked to be her. Surrounded by words instead of weapons. No killing. No destiny tightening like a noose around my throat. No prophecies whispering what I am meant to become. Fantasies instead of harsh realities.

Just pages and peace. My gods, that would be lovely.

I make my way up the creaking staircase, hand gliding along the worn railing, headed toward my favorite corner by the window. The sight of long blonde hair stops me in my tracks. It spills over the back of the couch like waves of sunlight. I roll my eyes before I even see her face. Of course.

“Silver,” I sigh, stepping around the couch. “What are you doing up this early?” Silver is well known among the pirates. She escorts them to beds and collects her coin with efficiency and discretion. Men speak her name like a rumor and a blessing in the same breath.

I won’t deny she’s stunning. A part of me has always wondered about her, has always wanted to step a little closer.

Her gaze lifts from the page, intoxicatingly blue and razor-sharp. “I could ask you the same thing, hun.” I can't help but smile and ignore the dismissiveness in her tone.

She doesn’t wait for my answer. Her attention drifts back to the book in her hands as if I’m merely background noise. I walk in front of the couch where she's curled up with a cup of coffee, steam curling around her. I peer at what she's reading.

“A pirate romance?” I arch a brow. She’s nearly at the end of it. “Have you been reading all night?”

This time, she looks up slowly, as if finishing a sentence on the page before granting me her attention. “Yes,” she replies, perfectly unbothered. “I wasn’t in the mood for Pebble’s last night.” Her eyes flick back to the page. “Now will you let me read? He’s about to profess his love, and I need this.” A small smile tugs at her mouth.

Before she can slip back into the world between those pages, I tell her, “You know, Silver… you could have that. In real life. A pirate would gladly take you aboard his ship.” Her sapphire eyes narrow, sharp as shards of ice.

“When you’re a woman aboard a pirate ship,” she says coolly, “you’re not just one man’s. You’re everyone’s, unless you're with the captain.” There’s no bitterness in her tone. Just truth.

“I don’t want to be trapped at sea with a crew of drunken fools,” she continues. “I choose who I share my bed with. My beauty gives me that freedom.” A flicker of pride lifts her chin. She’s right, she is stunning. I’m happy she understands her self-worth. I’ve always thought she would sleep with anyone for a coin, but seeing her from a different angle is enlightening.

“Understood,” I murmur. If there’s one thing I’ve always admired, it’s her confidence. I laugh softly and step away, letting her return to her fictional pirate while I search for a quieter place to sit.

I settle for the windowsill, my other refuge. I weave past the towering shelves lining every wall, my fingertips brushing along spines as I pass. The books seem to whisper at me, tugging at my attention, begging to be chosen. Stories of sea monsters, war chronicles, forbidden romances.

Another day, I would indulge them, maybe with a cinnamon bun or even two, if I could sneak them past Mireille. I smile faintly at the thought of Silver curled up with her pirate romance. She deserves that softness. She may be sharp-tongued and merciless to most, but she’s never pretended to be anything other than what she is. Honesty is rare in Magda.

I settle onto the wide windowsill overlooking the streets below. Early morning light filters through the glass, washing the room in pale gold.

I adjust myself against the cool stone, tucking one leg beneath me. The three books rest lightly in my lap. I pick up the one that looks the least embellished, the least dramatic. The one that feels like it might hold the truth rather than just rumors.

Healers or Witches?

I snort softly. Fair question. I open the cover carefully. The pages are brittle, edges darkened with age. Faint sketches stretch across the parchment, hands lifted with palms outward, light radiating from the center as though something inside them is breaking through skin.