Page 51

I am in my art room one day, painting the morning sky, when the prince sends a guard to escort me somewhere.

“His Highness has asked it to remain a surprise, miss,” the guard tells me when I ask where we are going. Curious, I follow him through the never-ending castle halls until we reach an area I have not yet explored.

The prince is standing outside grand double doors accented with gleaming silver. He gives a toothy smile when he notices me.

“Miss Shivani.” He greets me with a slight bow, his hand on his stomach.

“Your Highness.” I curtsy back before hedismisses the guard. As soon as he leaves, the prince leans forward to brush his lips against my cheek. I inhale the scent of him, blushing as he draws back.

“So, where have you taken me?” I ask, trying to stifle the flutter in my stomach.

He merely smiles at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and opens the doors. As I step in, all the breath leaves my lungs.

A library. It is vast, three stories tall and lined with thousands of books. Each floor has its own walkway circling the shelves with ladders dotted around. The smell of books hits me all at once, the sweetness mixed with dust and age. I take a few more steps in and spin slowly on the spot, taking it all in.

“This is amazing!” My voice comes out louder than I intended and echoes around the vast room. “Sorry,” I whisper, contrite.

“No, no.” The prince steps forward to join me. “You are right. Even after seeing it my whole life, it never ceases to amaze me.”

We look sideways at each other, smiling, as though we have a secret only we know.

“You are free to come here whenever you wish. I come here myself often, and maybe we can…” He trails off, and the tips of his ears turn pink. “Spend more time together.”

“I would like that, Your Highness.” My voice is even despite the millions of butterflies in my stomach. Although I know he views meas merely a friend, I have only grown fonder of him. His presence, large and soothing. The dark and sweet smell of him when he comes close to me. The slightly lopsided smile he gives when I laugh, as though pleased to have elicited such a reaction from me.

The gentle soul he houses behind the bars of his curse.

To calm myself, I turn away and begin wandering the library.

We spend several hours there, occasionally speaking in hushed tones about a book we have found or are hoping to read. The library is bigger than anything I could have even dreamed of, having only had access to the one-room library my Aunt owns. I try to ignore the dull ache at my temples at how much she would love to see this place.

The immediate possibilities of researching the prince’s curse open up to me—the information we need could be right here.

The prince gravitates to the flora and fauna section and I accompany him as he tells me excitedly of his favourites. He is the most animated I have ever seen him, and his joy fills my heart. Afterwards, he guides us to the history section where my enthusiasm grows.

“Where did you learn to read so many languages?” the prince asks me as we peruse some thick texts on the history of sirens.

“My aunt,” I answer absently, running myfinger along the spines. A few of the books are familiar but I mentally log some away to come back to later. “She is a magical woman and taught me many things.”

“Really?” The prince cocks an eyebrow, intrigued. “She taught you magic?”

“She did.” I cock my head to the side, reading the title of a book about siren songs. “She taught me how to read spells written in witchtongue.”

The prince’s eyes widen in understanding.

“Ah! I have found many books here which are written in an unfamiliar text. Perhaps they are spell books? Let me take you to them.”

He slides his hand into mine and whisks me off, up two sets of ladders and several landings until we reach the very top floor. It is not as well-lit here, but it is warmer. A purple glow emanates from one of the bookshelves. My breath hitches at the sight of it.

“Here.” The prince brings me to the glowing bookcase which, upon closer inspection, is only coming from one book. “This entire shelf is written in another language—even the letters are different from ours. I tried searching in the other books for a translation, but the only reference I found to it was the word faeth.”

“Faeth,” I mutter to myself. “It means magic.”

“In what language?”

“Dragon,” I whisper.

We fall silent, staring at the glowing book. I frown at the purple glow.