Illusions of Fate
Page 8
A cold something prickles down my spine, and I look at the card. In my hand—though I am certain—certain—I took one card, are two.
“Please leave.” His voice is strangled, and his eyes are wide with fear.
I drop the cards without looking at them and flee. It’s only after I’m safely in my room that I realize his door had unlocked itself.
Four
AS I LEAVE THE LIBRARY, I’M NOT LOOKING WHERE I walk and nearly bump into a man.
“Oh, I’m so—” I stop, the apology trapped on my tongue. Professor Miller looks back at me, eyes opened as round as his glasses. My first instinct is to run, to flee, to do anything to get away from the awkwardness of this moment.
But then something mean and stubborn inside of me rears its ugly head and instead I stand there, not breaking eye contact, my back and shoulders straight with defiance. I dare him to speak to me.
He ducks his head and hurries away, misjudging the space and smashing his shoulder into one of the bookshelves.
“I hope that hurt,” I whisper, not sure whether I won or lost.
Sighing, I push out of the building. The day is heavy with clouds, even the green of the grass and shrubs losing their sharper edge of color, and I rub at my sleeves wishing I had brought a shawl.
Finding an open bench is no issue. I crack open a book written by the very man I just passed. Usually the chapters are tedious, but today something catches my eye. This section focuses on the royal families of the Iverian continent, Albion’s across-the-channel neighbor and constantly rotating source of enemies and allies.
Hallin. I’d never heard the term before Finn and his crazy questions (and my shameful answers, the honesty of which I still cannot account for). But Hallin is the name of the family from which all the Iverian continental countries draw their royals.
Skimming with a new urgency, I find the other name: Cromberg. The royal family from which all Alben gentry descends.
I try to connect it, but it leaves me even more confused than that entire encounter did. Why would Finn ask me which royal line I practiced? How does one practice a royal line? And why would anyone think I had associations with either?
Perhaps Finn is in some sort of trouble. Perhaps he’s a spy, or a traitor, or . . . a prince in disguise. Yes. Because that makes as much sense as anything. I laugh quietly, imagining all of our encounters with this filter. The poor prince in hiding. The exotic, too-good-for-her-circumstances woman who breaks through his barriers. I ought to be making my money by writing the penny romances sold to bored housekeepers.
A caw makes me slam the book shut with a startled exclamation. “You!” I glare at the large black bird on the bench next to me. It’s foolish to think it’s the same foul creature, but I cannot help it. This bird is missing a claw from its left foot. I take note, if only to prove to myself that I am not seeing the same bird everywhere I go.
It reminds me of the feather Finn found in my hair. But the feather is gone, and so is Finn—checked out of the hotel. Hopefully forever, and good riddance. I shouldn’t spare him any more thoughts.
The image of his collarbones beneath the open robe rises unbidden in my mind, and I curse at myself in Melenese. Penny romance indeed.
The bird caws again and I shoo at it with my hands. “I am very cross with you. Please leave at once.” It ignores my attempts at banishment, so I turn my head to face directly forward, nose in the air. Part of me wants to run inside, but I refuse to be cowed by a bird. This is my bench today.
It lets out another caw, this time softer. I hadn’t realized birds had the capacity for volume control. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it bob up and down like it wants my attention—silly thought, birds are not cats, it is not trying to communicate—and then, with another caw, it flies away.
More relieved than I care to admit, I look at the empty spot where it had been, only to find a long, green satin ribbon.
This city has a veritable plague of large black birds. I cannot understand how I never noticed until now. I see them everywhere I go. But none get close enough for me to determine whether or not they are my ribbon-fascinated stalker.
Which is why being awoken by one of the brutes tapping on my tiny window sets my heart racing and my teeth on edge. I flop back down onto my cot, hand cool against my fevered brow. There was a dream, with . . .
Finn. I can still feel the curve of his collarbone where I traced it with my finger. He was apologizing, and I was in his arms, the angles of his sharp shoulders wrapped toward me.
Another tap against my windowpane. I jump out of bed and scream, pushing the window out on its hinge and dislodging the bird in a flurry of black feathers. “And don’t come back!” I shout.
I lean my head out, closing my eyes against the soft mist drizzle the sky has been weeping for a fortnight. If it would only rain, that would accomplish a cleansing of the city, but this drizzle simply coats everything in a layer of slick damp over the usual grime and dirt.
Poor bird. I spend nearly all my time indoors and still I’m going mad with the weather. It was probably trying to find an alcove to get dry. I grab a tin of biscuits from my nightstand and set them out along the ledge as a peace offering.
To my surprise, the bird comes back immediately, claws grabbing onto the narrow stone ledge just outside my reach. A missing claw. Maybe the odd creature has imprinted on me? Though it is far from a new hatchling. It turns its head outward toward the rain, but one yellow eye remains fixed on me reproachfully. “Yes, fine. I apologize. Get dry and stay warm with a snack.”
“Please leave.” His voice is strangled, and his eyes are wide with fear.
I drop the cards without looking at them and flee. It’s only after I’m safely in my room that I realize his door had unlocked itself.
Four
AS I LEAVE THE LIBRARY, I’M NOT LOOKING WHERE I walk and nearly bump into a man.
“Oh, I’m so—” I stop, the apology trapped on my tongue. Professor Miller looks back at me, eyes opened as round as his glasses. My first instinct is to run, to flee, to do anything to get away from the awkwardness of this moment.
But then something mean and stubborn inside of me rears its ugly head and instead I stand there, not breaking eye contact, my back and shoulders straight with defiance. I dare him to speak to me.
He ducks his head and hurries away, misjudging the space and smashing his shoulder into one of the bookshelves.
“I hope that hurt,” I whisper, not sure whether I won or lost.
Sighing, I push out of the building. The day is heavy with clouds, even the green of the grass and shrubs losing their sharper edge of color, and I rub at my sleeves wishing I had brought a shawl.
Finding an open bench is no issue. I crack open a book written by the very man I just passed. Usually the chapters are tedious, but today something catches my eye. This section focuses on the royal families of the Iverian continent, Albion’s across-the-channel neighbor and constantly rotating source of enemies and allies.
Hallin. I’d never heard the term before Finn and his crazy questions (and my shameful answers, the honesty of which I still cannot account for). But Hallin is the name of the family from which all the Iverian continental countries draw their royals.
Skimming with a new urgency, I find the other name: Cromberg. The royal family from which all Alben gentry descends.
I try to connect it, but it leaves me even more confused than that entire encounter did. Why would Finn ask me which royal line I practiced? How does one practice a royal line? And why would anyone think I had associations with either?
Perhaps Finn is in some sort of trouble. Perhaps he’s a spy, or a traitor, or . . . a prince in disguise. Yes. Because that makes as much sense as anything. I laugh quietly, imagining all of our encounters with this filter. The poor prince in hiding. The exotic, too-good-for-her-circumstances woman who breaks through his barriers. I ought to be making my money by writing the penny romances sold to bored housekeepers.
A caw makes me slam the book shut with a startled exclamation. “You!” I glare at the large black bird on the bench next to me. It’s foolish to think it’s the same foul creature, but I cannot help it. This bird is missing a claw from its left foot. I take note, if only to prove to myself that I am not seeing the same bird everywhere I go.
It reminds me of the feather Finn found in my hair. But the feather is gone, and so is Finn—checked out of the hotel. Hopefully forever, and good riddance. I shouldn’t spare him any more thoughts.
The image of his collarbones beneath the open robe rises unbidden in my mind, and I curse at myself in Melenese. Penny romance indeed.
The bird caws again and I shoo at it with my hands. “I am very cross with you. Please leave at once.” It ignores my attempts at banishment, so I turn my head to face directly forward, nose in the air. Part of me wants to run inside, but I refuse to be cowed by a bird. This is my bench today.
It lets out another caw, this time softer. I hadn’t realized birds had the capacity for volume control. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it bob up and down like it wants my attention—silly thought, birds are not cats, it is not trying to communicate—and then, with another caw, it flies away.
More relieved than I care to admit, I look at the empty spot where it had been, only to find a long, green satin ribbon.
This city has a veritable plague of large black birds. I cannot understand how I never noticed until now. I see them everywhere I go. But none get close enough for me to determine whether or not they are my ribbon-fascinated stalker.
Which is why being awoken by one of the brutes tapping on my tiny window sets my heart racing and my teeth on edge. I flop back down onto my cot, hand cool against my fevered brow. There was a dream, with . . .
Finn. I can still feel the curve of his collarbone where I traced it with my finger. He was apologizing, and I was in his arms, the angles of his sharp shoulders wrapped toward me.
Another tap against my windowpane. I jump out of bed and scream, pushing the window out on its hinge and dislodging the bird in a flurry of black feathers. “And don’t come back!” I shout.
I lean my head out, closing my eyes against the soft mist drizzle the sky has been weeping for a fortnight. If it would only rain, that would accomplish a cleansing of the city, but this drizzle simply coats everything in a layer of slick damp over the usual grime and dirt.
Poor bird. I spend nearly all my time indoors and still I’m going mad with the weather. It was probably trying to find an alcove to get dry. I grab a tin of biscuits from my nightstand and set them out along the ledge as a peace offering.
To my surprise, the bird comes back immediately, claws grabbing onto the narrow stone ledge just outside my reach. A missing claw. Maybe the odd creature has imprinted on me? Though it is far from a new hatchling. It turns its head outward toward the rain, but one yellow eye remains fixed on me reproachfully. “Yes, fine. I apologize. Get dry and stay warm with a snack.”
