Page 71

Vellum binding. Chunky spine. Brass hinges.

Brittle pages. A tome that belongs in an archive.

Fables eternal. I’ve never seen it, but I know what this is. There’s only one of its kind, one that had vanished into the ages, along with its authors. It shouldn’t be here, but it is.

The original Book of Fables.

17

Are my eyes deceiving me? They’re not.

Is Cypress deceiving me? He’s not.

Yet it can’t be true. How did this book end up here, preserved in the centaur’s possession?

Gold-leaf feathers, branches, and water droplets emboss the spine. Centuries have scratched and dulled the hinges. A menagerie of animals from each corner of The Dark Fables roams across the cover. Lions, panthers, bears, elephants, wolves, hares, and ravens.

I trail my fingers over the title, bathed in starlight and firelight. I touch the letters lightly, afraid this relic will crumble to ash at the slightest contact.

Book of Fables: Of Fauna and Fanciful Beings

A subtitle! The original has a subtitle!

That, more than anything, convinces me this is real. Behind my ribcage, something wondrous unfurls, fluttering from my chest to my head. I feel lightheaded, awestruck, dazed with hope. I would go so far as to call it a bookish high or an academic intoxication. My digits itch to pry open the tome and explore.

I lift my gaze to Cypress. When he gestures toward the book as if to say, “Be my guest,” I don’t need to be invited twice. I fish my spectacles from their protective case and jam the lenses onto my face. I press on the hinges’ clasps, and they jolt open with a giddy click that matches the lurch in my pulse. Slowly, I turn from one page to the next.

My finger runs over the table of contents, then an introductory note from the scribes themselves, alongside their signatures—three of them.

Some Fables have the same titles as I’d been taught, whereas others diverge. I recognize many of the tales but not all.

Painted illustrations accompany the stories, as intricate as an illuminated manuscript I once saw displayed in the bookbinder’s shop. I gasp at the depictions, smiling at the likenesses of owls, stags, and snakes.

While my sisters have coveted their own wishes—Lark, the ability to fly and perpetual orgasms; Cove, breathing underwater and a kindly world—I have fantasized about this book. I’ve imagined discovering it in a remote corner of the continent. I’ve envisioned it a thousand times, yet it doesn’t compare to the reality.

Am I holding this book properly, respectfully?

I glance up, tensing. “How old are you? Were you alive during the scribes’ era?”

Umbrage hardens the equine’s face, which is distorted through the spectacles. “The centaurs did not steal this relic. However self-indulgent we are, thievery is against our custom.”

Of all magical beings, centaurs are among the least documented figures, in addition to Pegasi, who went extinct after a battle with the southern dragons, and dragons themselves, who are impossible to get near. By comparison, the few existing Fables about centaurs have spoken of their hermetic nature. Sportive they may be—like all woodland Faeries—but centaurs remain the most reclusive of the Solitaries, despite their nomadic habits. Based on the latter fact, they must be prone to wandering alone. And in any case, few passages have been written about them as a result.

As to Cypress’s denial about plundering this book, I believe him. While I turn the pages, he explains.

Centuries ago, three scribes traveled through The Dark Fables, collecting tales about magical beings. That much, mortals know. But there’s a missing piece we haven’t been privy to.

Cypress shares, “When two of the scribes passed on, and only one was left, she braved the Solitary wild, risking her life in pursuit of additional wisdom.”

My head springs up, and I remove the spectacles. “She?”

When he nods, I grin. “What was her name?”

“She did not tell us. We merely referred to her as the scribe.”

That’s a disappointment. All the same, none of my people ever knew who the scribes were or what they looked like. I’m happy to learn at least one of them was a female.

According to Cypress, this scribe sought to fill in the blanks about centaurs, which is as far as she got in Faerie. She bargained and bartered her way through, cognizant of Fae treachery. When she finally located The Heart of Willows, the scribe conveyed to the centaurs who she was. Being nomads like her, the equines were willing to hear the woman out. She made a deal with them that the Book of Fables would never leave this land, providing she was allowed to stay and record tales about their kin.