Page 53 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

CORDELIA

I cannot believe my eyes. Even after everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve learned, I still can’t believe this was right underneath my nose.

As unknown to me as my powers. My heritage. As the life that was stolen from me.

I’m staring at a secret inheritance that I was never supposed to find.

Rows upon rows of pristine bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes spread out before me, as far as Duke’s eyes can see. This massive underground space has to be at least four times larger than the house above. I have no idea where to start or how much time I have to browse.

Wallace wasn’t kidding when he suggested that I might need a favor to know what to look for.

You still with me, Duke ? I check as I walk straight down the middle aisle.

If Wallace isn’t like all the tricky fae that I’ve ever read about, then Hope and Neveah won’t be able to see me no matter where I go.

I lift one of Duke’s hands to make sure I still can’t see it.

I turn it back and forth. I swish it around in front of me, the way I used to write my name with a sparkler when I was little.

The only sight before me is a gorgeous, seemingly never-ending green carpet runner woven with gold in the shape of leafy vines.

Still alive. Gonna need an actual vacation after all this. Check back in ten minutes. I might have something useful for you.

Something useful would be swell, but I can’t guarantee that we have ten minutes to spare.

I hear Hope and Neveah’s voices somewhere to my right, but they’re inexplicably far away.

It sounds like they’re moving as quickly as I am.

That either means they don’t know exactly what they’re looking for, or…

they know right where to find what they want.

I’m just thankful that I don’t have to squint in the dark.

While I can’t make out the ceiling or walls of the otherwise shadowy library, every shelf is illuminated.

The very wood seems to pulse with an ethereal, soothing glow.

It reminds me of the chests in Wallace’s pocket realm.

The light is just bright enough to read any titles on the spines of the books.

Not every book has a title, but I don’t have the luxury of pulling them one by one to check inside.

I skip the books that have foreign titles.

I’m not fluent in anything except English, so those won’t help me.

The next three bookcases seem random. Nothing is organized by topic or even alphabetized.

I move on to the next, and the next, and the next, growing increasingly frustrated with every bookcase that reads more like an underfunded rural teacher’s wet dream, rather than anything that will improve our situation.

Think, Cordelia. If the upstairs bookshelf was meant to be a decoy, then the shelves closest to the staircase probably are, too. Where would she have hidden the good stuff?

Little busy at the moment, darling, Duke quips.

Sorry. That was meant to be an inside thought.

He doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. I’m just grateful he’s still alive.

I spin in circles, then try the next aisle. And the next. And the next.

Granny always taught me that hard work was of the utmost importance in any undertaking. She’d said that only fools could expect to be good at anything without investing a little sweat equity.

Blood, sweat, and tears had been her actual words, but the gist is the same. In hindsight, maybe those were her favorite spell ingredients.

I make a beeline for the opposite side of the library from Hope and Neveah’s voices. It’s a risk to go too far from the entrance, but I dive deeper and deeper between the rows of shelves. As long as I can hear the witches, I can guess their location.

Granny obviously didn’t trust them.

Why else would she lock this place up tight and not tell anyone where to find it, let alone how to open it?

By the time I reach the bookcases furthest to the left of the entrance, I’m shivering. There may be light to read by, but it provides no warmth in this cavernous, subsurface space.

Hope and Neveah sound like they’re arguing on the other side of the library. It doesn’t seem as if they’ve moved from the same spot in a few minutes, which might be a problem.

I’d better hurry.

When I finally focus on the titles in front of me, I don’t know if I can.

I fall to Duke’s knees and stare at this collection in wonder.

Here, stuffed from end to end on ten shelves that are each at least six feet wide, is every book I can remember ever reading in my lifetime.

They’re not mine. I know they’re not. Smack dab in the middle is a copy of my favorite comfort read.

The original, love-worn book is still in my purse, the one that the fortune teller spied when we were in her tent.

Many of these titles are currently boxed up in the basement of my house in Charleston.

The books seem to be arranged in chronological order—of my life.

The bottom shelf is full of children’s books like Aesop’s Fables, the complete Frog and Toad collection, and the Little House on the Prairie series.

As the shelves reach toward the ceiling, the books increase in complexity and age appropriateness.

An entire shelf that roughly aligns with junior high is nothing but bodice rippers.

I was really into closed-door historical romance before I graduated to ultra-spicy contemporary in my late teens.

My cheeks heat with embarrassment when I see copies of the alien, monster, and omegaverse titles that I favored during college.

God, I hope Granny didn’t judge me for enjoying those.

I also pray she never realized that I rolled my lady marble often while reading them.

I had still been working up the nerve to try out real-life men who might not hate me for no reason.

Fantastical creatures were easier for secondhand pleasure.

They didn’t exist, so they couldn’t hurt me.

I don’t have time to savor this beautiful gift, but I can’t resist pulling my old favorite from the spot of honor in the center, just to see where she purchased it and what edition it is.

I pause to listen before cracking open the cover. The witches sound like they’re further toward the back of the library, away from the steps that lead back up to the sitting room. I have a little time.

When I open the book, a piece of paper slips out and flutters to the floor.

I retrieve it to discover that it’s a plain piece of notebook paper, folded into thirds.

It’s addressed to me in Granny’s nearly perfect cursive handwriting.

She insisted on teaching me how to read it, claiming that it was a dying artform in modern times that would enable me to glimpse the past.

I slide Duke’s fingers across this piece of her. It pisses me off a little that I’m feeling something that she touched—a final, glorious surprise from her—with the rough pads of his fingertips instead of with my own.

With a deep breath, I unfold the letter and read.

My dearest Cordie,

If you’re reading this, then first and foremost, let me say how sorry I am.

This collection is a testament to your resilience, imagination, and unfading hope in a better tomorrow.

It doesn’t make up for the life that was stolen from you.

It is, instead, my feeble hope that it will stand as a reminder of my deep love for you in a time when you may believe that I did not fight for you.

Nothing could be further from the truth, and I hope that one day you can understand that. Your heart may not soften toward me until you have daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters of your own. That’s all right. I’m dead now, so there’s no rush.

I pray to Danu that you are never forced to make choices for them the way that I was for you.

I also pray to Nicnevin that you’re not surrounded by a coven of cowardly cunts the way I was.

I have faith yet in your generation. If only they can cut their umbilical cords and recognize that the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

If everything has gone to shit and you’re unsure who to trust, go to Wallace.

He’s the only one likely to outlive us all, and the only one who will have your best interest at heart.

Be that as it may, step with care in your interactions.

He is as good a fae as I’ve ever met, but he cannot help his nature.

Just as we cannot.

Since we are shackled to our duty, I will end my letter with this advice:

If you must make many babies, then enjoy the pleasures of many men. Even our lives are too fleeting not to live to the fullest.

If you cannot outrun The Fates, then race beside them. They are brutal yet fair companions .

If everything has gone to the seven hells, then burn it all to the ground. Leave nothing in your wake.

You are more powerful and more loved than you know. That you have found this letter is proof. Until the Wheel of Life breaks, I will believe in you.

My undying love,

Granny

I slap a hand over Duke’s mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape.

She knew.

She knew what her sisters did to me, but she believed that I could beat them anyway. I won’t give Granny a reason not to believe in me, even from the grave. I can’t let her down by giving myself away.

Cordie? What’s wrong?

Why do you think anything’s wrong? I swallow down my confusion, rage, and sorrow, then rise with my big-girl panties—or Duke’s tighty-whities—firmly in place. I’ll have time to wallow and to grieve.

Just not today.

I can feel your pain. Should I send Wallace down there?

No.

This is my life as told in books. I’m not inclined to share it with anyone. I fold the letter in quarters and shove it into Duke’s back jeans pocket. If I never get another chance to return to this gift of gifts, then at least I can take the most important piece of it with me.

Hope and Neveah are arguing again. It sounds like they’ve moved from their position at the back of the library. That’s my cue to get on with it.

I scan the closest bookshelf to my personal collection. This is more like it.

Witchcraft for War, Advanced Spells and Incantations, Alchemy of Everyday Objects, The Complete Compendium of Sex Acts for Known Magical Beings.

I wrinkle my nose. As tempting as that is, I’m not sure I want to know what Granny was into any more than I want to think about her reading my choices of lady spank bank material.

Forgotten Pantheons, Fire Wielding for Water Nymphs, Faekind and Their Vices, Witches Around the World.

This entire case is an impossible choice, but I refuse to leave empty-handed because of decision paralysis. Since I have to sneak them out and hide them somewhere safe, I choose the smallest novels.

Until my gaze lands on a book spine that’s wider than both of Duke’s hands together.

An Unabridged History of the New Ireland Coven.

The name immediately pings in my memory banks.

That was something the fortune teller mentioned. Duke Atholl means the leader of New Ireland.

This is a full history of our coven. It has to be.

Even Duke’s well-developed biceps are going to struggle with something of this size and weight.

I glance around for a cart. Granny couldn’t have hauled this down here by herself.

Of course, there’s nothing like that nearby.

Shit. How am I going to get this through the library and up the stairs?

Even if I can get it out, where would I hide it?

My whole house has been tossed by a couple of hoes who almost killed Duke just to get access to this place.

If they don’t find what they’re looking for down here, they might search again.

Gingersnap, I need you to do me a favor.

I’m happy he asked instead of trying to trap his body into a bargain. That sucked enough the first time.

I assume because you’re not screaming that your life isn’t on the line. I fight not to make a sound as I heft the giant book off the shelf. Fuck, this thing is heavier than I thought it would be. If it’s not, then I’m a little busy at the moment.

This is important .

More important than trying to figure out how to steal a heavy-ass book that might teach us everything that no one will tell us?

There’s a smile in his voice when he says, I have a solution for that.

I’m listening.