Page 1 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely (A Curse of Fallen Stars #1)

Lorel

“Lorel, you finally appear.”

It’s a warm day in the scriptorium, the wing of the Library devoted to the production of books.

It’s my first day back since the incident and naturally, my sister has sought me out to ruin it.

On this particular morning, she perches on my desk, her silk skirts draped perilously over my paints and charcoal.

Her voice cuts through the quiet of the scriptorium, bouncing off the dull stone walls.

Each section of the scriptorium sits surrounded by shelves on all sides except for where it opens with high arches onto an open courtyard that lets in dim, filtered light.

Never full sunlight, of course. Never a glimpse of the stars through the clouds at night.

Our desks sit in orderly rows. There are four in my section, giving us ample elbow room among the tall shelves that surround us.

This is a place of silence, I sign to her.

“You know I can’t read your little hand signs,” she says. “Use your tongue. Properly, like the rest of us.”

I glare at her. So do the other scribes in my section, Trefor and Sybri. There are the three of us, under Elris, our illuminator. Orielle seems impervious to us all. We are but lowly scribes in her eyes.

“Your Librarian turned me away when I came to see you. Am I not allowed to see my sister?”

You know you’re not. Particularly when you’re speaking in the scriptorium during the working hours.

I ensure I sign slowly for her, but she just stares at me blankly.

There’s no reason for her to not know the hand signs by now.

I’ve been a part of the Library since I turned sixteen.

I’m twenty-six now and in the last stages of my apprenticeship.

She really should know the rules of the scriptorium at this point.

Not in the least because she doesn’t seem willing to let me go.

A noise of frustration catches in the back of my throat.

It is entirely against the rules to voice it, but that hardly matters because it doesn’t come.

I’ve not been able to make a single sound since the incident six weeks ago.

It’s not just the loss of my voice, but a complete silencing.

It doesn’t matter what hour it is. Working hours, leisure hours, mealtime.

I couldn’t utter a word even if I wanted to. I am cursed.

Not that I want Orielle to know that. It is why I have refused to see her, after all.

That and the strange presence of the curse in my chest, resting below the curse mark that had appeared across my skin.

It doesn’t like it when Orielle is near.

I can’t think why, not since she’s such a joy to be around.

I pull out my chair, heedless of Orielle’s skirts. She doesn’t take the hint.

“ Lorel, ” she says, catching my chin. I twist away from her, recoiling at the sudden touch. The last thing I need is for her to pick up on anything different about me. “I merely wish to check that you are alright. It’s hardly my fault if I can only catch you here during the day hours.”

My hand signs in response are as swift as my tongue would have been.

This is when you always turn up. Don’t pretend any differently .

The elegant roll of her eyes is all I get in response, but what did I really expect?

Orielle is a talented mage and courtier devoted to the circus that is the Suntide Court, and my life must seem small and insignificant to her.

I don’t even know why she bothers to visit anymore.

Perhaps I should be glad of it, but I can only feel ungrateful at the intrusion.

Orielle, golden child. Grey-eyed and clever enough to rise through the ranks of the Dawn King’s ruthless courtiers. Tall and shapely. Always perfectly dressed, every hair exactly in place. Always with her chin tipped up.

I have just enough fae blood to make my pointed ears irritating to lie on. Orielle has enough to make her a prodigy. She belongs in those lantern lit halls. My dark-haired, pale self is happiest in the Library’s shadows. Out of sight, and as far out of mind as I can get.

Which unfortunately, is never as far away as I would like. Unlike Orielle, extra attention is the last thing I want. The whole ordeal of the past few weeks has been a nightmare.

“You seem in fine form. I can’t see what all the fuss was about,” she says. She settles herself more firmly on my desk, as if I don’t have a job to get on with.

The crude hand sign I use to tell her to move is clear, even to her.

Orielle wrinkles her nose, looking around at the other scribes settling into their place. Elris will be along soon, and I don’t want him to think I’m slacking.

Move. I need to get to work.

Orielle makes a noise to express her distaste. “Is this really where you want to be, Lorel? A mere existence among scribes ?” she says. It echoes loudly in the chamber.

The King have mercy on me, I’m going to kill her. Why is she like this?

I want to be a scribe. I am content here. I have no ability for anything else and I can barely cast a permanent ward, let alone a proper sigil.

My hand signs are frantic. She understands them about as well as she understands me. There’s no point in such an outburst. Even so, my hands shake with the fury that only a sibling can conjure.

I doubt I could have picked a profession more distasteful to her.

My lack of magical skill bars me from most things she’d deem worthy.

Of all the things I could be, this is something I am capable of.

I’ll never excel at it. I’ll never rise to be an illuminator with my own team of scribes.

I am lucky that sometimes Elris trusts me with the initial wash layers, but I know I will never be as skilled as he is.

I don’t need it hammered into me every time my blessed sister appears to express her disappointment at my mediocrity.

If I’m such a disappointment, why can’t you just leave me alone?

Even if she does understand my hand signs, they’re so rushed I’m not sure even a Librarian would manage it.

Orielle’s face closes off and I worry I’ve gone too far.

And then a cool hand slides over my shoulder. Another grips my upper arm and there is the press of a much taller body behind me. I shiver as if I have passed into the dark alcove.

“Lady Orielle,” comes a smooth voice, as cool as her hands. “I am afraid I must ask you to leave. It appears you are upsetting my scribe.”

Dawn King have mercy on me. We’ve attracted the attention of a Librarian.

Orielle has turned to marble. Cold and impassive. Immovable. It’s a look at what she must be like day-to-day. It is my least favourite version of her.

“I hardly think it your concern when I come to speak to my sister,” Orielle says.

I lift my hands to reply. The Librarian’s hand slides down my arm to still me.

“Scribe Lorel belongs to the Library and is in my care. As I told you when you came by earlier, you are not entitled to interrupt her work.”

There is a spark of indignant fury in Orielle’s eyes. “But she was not at work then, was she?”

“Lady Orielle,” says the Librarian, and the way she says it has me shrinking like I’m sixteen again and have accidentally spilled ink across the desk. “I will only ask you once more. Remove yourself and do not step foot in my Library again without the appropriate applications.”

“You cannot restrict me—” starts Orielle.

“If you continue to make such an infernal racket in the scriptorium during the working hours, I am afraid I will be forced to restrict you entirely from the Library. Do not try to force my hand. You do not have any power here,” the Librarian says.

Her hand is tense on my shoulder. It’s almost possessive.

I suppose it is a claim of sorts. I am a scribe and I belong to the Library.

Orielle is complete and haughty outrage. Colour sits high on her cheeks and her eyes are bright.

“Fine,” Orielle snaps, casting the word louder than required. Of course, she will not bear to allow the Librarian to have the last word. She doesn’t hurry to remove herself from my desk, slipping off in a soft sigh of silk on silk.

I can’t move my hands to sign a goodbye. There is no point anyway. My heart aches with regret to watch her go, just like it does every time we part poorly. Which is most of the time.

The Librarian doesn’t move once Orielle is gone. Her fingers tap lightly against my arm, and I notice her perfume now. It envelops me in a cloud of moss and old stone. A deep earthy scent with a touch of night blossom. She leans in, her mouth against my ear. My heart stutters.

No one seeks the attention of a Librarian.

We scribes avoid it at all costs. A late fee paid to a Librarian is one paid in blood.

An excess of noise in the Library itself was an invitation to lose your tongue.

To cause damage to a book didn’t even bear thinking about.

I dread what my punishment for this ruckus will be.

Her breath brushes cool against my ear, like she has spent too long in the depths of the Library. Perhaps even as deep as the Library’s mysterious Heart, that dark ever-changing labyrinth where only the Librarians ever tread.

“Scribe,” she says and it sends a chill like the grave down my spine. “When you are done with the day's tasks, I would like a word.”

Dread sits cold in my stomach. If Orielle has brought a Librarian down on my head, I will kill her myself. If I survive.

“ Don’t keep me waiting.”

I cannot shake the cold feeling of relentless dread that has seeped into my bones.

It turns my stomach on itself until I wish I could beg off the day's work and be anywhere else.

Elris gives me a worried look as he passes me the day's pages.

He pushes his pale hair back as he crouches next to my desk, hazel eyes unguarded.

Colour washes, he signs, attempting a smile that he surely means to be comforting. It comes across as wretched as I feel. He’s taking pity on me. Taking notice of the tremor in my hands that will make the detailed work of copying outlines an impossible task.

Of course, there are still myriad ways I can make a mess of filling in the delicate washes for the backgrounds of the illustrated pages. Fortunately, Elris’ style is a more romantic, fluid thing that is unlikely to suffer from the fits of panic that will no doubt plague me through the day's work.

The hours give me no quarter, the minutes rushing after each other relentlessly. All too soon, the bell chimes softly, calling the end of the day. With it come the voices of the scribes rising and echoing in the chamber. My voice doesn’t join them.

I am a coward, so I busy myself in the stacks. Pretend that I’m laying out my work to dry while the other scribes clear out. Maybe I should have asked someone to wait for me, to be sure I do come out from my meeting with the Librarian. It’s too late for that, though. It’s far, far too late.