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But Sofia craved knowledge. She craved to know what secrets the books whispered in their pages, tucked between the covers. Her mother’s book hadn’t just been the small scratched symbols. There had been beautifully painted landscapes and colorful animals Sofia couldn’t have dreamed up. Would these books look the same?

It took her two weeks to gain the courage to slip the first book off the shelf and open its pages. It was thick and heavy and had the king’s tongue written across the spine. She was disappointed to see the black and white pages with not even a single picture amongst the small symbols. But then she found another book, thinner and covered in colorful art and only the occasional letter. The pictures were of various trees, and after a while she understood what symbols went together to saytree. And then leaf. And bark. Her world expanded, blooming like the midnight flowers that glowed at sundown.

Each day, as she wiped the dust from the library shelves and shined the windows until the sun filtered through gleaming and bright, she looked at the spines of the books and learned. She found the small stack of children’s books in the corner, seemingly forgotten, and she looked until she understood. She read. She devoured.

When she was done with the children’s books, memorizing the tales of the Dereyans—with their trolls and goblins that only the king and his men could defeat—she moved on to the other books. She found those without pictures and those written byherpeople, translated into the tongue of the king. Stories of Dragonborn men and women who fought the creatures of the rainforest, men who protected their families and their tribes, women who could defeat the darkest of faeries. And for the first time, she saw all of the things her parents only ever whispered about behind closed doors.

* * *

Once she’d memorizedevery faerytale story she could get her hands on, Sofia moved to books on medicine and hunting and geography. The Dereyans, despite their distaste for the nature of Wueco, had cataloged much of the land, including the plants and animals that resided just outside the wall. It was in these books she learned about shifters,ciervados, and weeping willows. They were the things out of her faerytales, but they were written down and measured out on these pages like a scientific study. They were written on the same pages as drawings of mushrooms labeling which were poisonous and which tasted best cooked in oil.

She might have gone to her parents and asked the questions that spun through her mind had this been a normal world where reading was encouraged instead of punished. Instead, she could only absorb the words on the pages, trying to understand everything.

Perhaps it was why she didn’t notice when the library lock clicked and the door opened with the soft woosh of air. The moment the heel of a well-polished boot hit the wood floor in front of her, though, her head snapped up, eyes wide and stomach dropping with dread.

The chief commander—head of the king’s army and master of the house—towered above, looking down at the book in her hands and the words scrawled across the pages. She was on a chapter detailing the specific trees that made up the mangroves southwest of the city.

Maybe if the pages she was looking at had had some drawings across their faces, she could have gotten away with punishment for her sloth. But when her eyes met his above the pages, staring into their black depths, she knew that he knew. She had been reading—a charge worthy of losing her job and her freedom.

Her entire body tensed up, waiting for the blow that was sure to come. She swore she saw the twitch of his fingers against his thigh loosening and clenching as the two of them stared at each other in silence.

But he didn’t lash out. Instead, his hand reached forward, palm up and she followed his silent instructions, placing the book in his grip before she stood, head bowed.

“Come with me,” he said, voice as cold as his eyes. She followed, eyes tracking his feet as she walked. She expected him to bring her to the kitchens where Ms. Garcia would dole out her punishment. Or he’d just throw her into the prison himself. But they went down the hall a few paces. He waved her in when she hesitated outside his office door. She looked up again, meeting his eyes but unable to understand what he was asking of her. His face was blank and he only pushed her, a hand on her shoulder until she was forced to step into the room.

“Sit,” he said, moving around his desk and easing himself into his large chair. She took the only chair on the other side of the desk, an ornately carved thing that left her feet dangling several inches from the ground. The cushion was soft and she sank into it before she made her muscles go rigid. “What’s your name?”

She knew from faerytales that giving one’s name was a risky thing—an act of trust and an exchange of power. But she didn’t have a choice.

“Sofia, sir.” Her eyes were tracing the wood grain of the desk. She wondered if someone could tell what type of tree the wood came from by the pattern.

“Who taught you how to read?”

Her eyes flew up and met his. She knew the question behind that one and quickly shook her head.

“No one, sir. I taught myself. My parents don’t know.”

“You taught yourself how to read?”

“Yes, sir. I swear it.”

“How old are you?” He was examining her like a specimen.

“Ten, sir.”

“And do you know the punishment for being caught reading?”

Despite the shake in her hands, she held his eyes as she spoke the words. “The labor farms.”

He nodded, giving her a look somewhere between approval and pride. It made her stomach twist.

“How would you like to continue working here? To not go to the farms?”

Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped before she could control her face.

“I won’t even punish your parents for allowing your crimes.” He said the words warmly, as if they weren’t part threat. She dug her nails into the skin of her wrist, picking at the skin there as she tried to pull her face into something neutral. “I need an assistant. Someone to help me with copying letters, tracking my schedule, and cataloging my books.”

She stared blankly, not understanding how his statement applied to her but he was staring expectantly, a pale eyebrow raised in question.