Page 3 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely (A Curse of Fallen Stars #1)

Lorel

I find Sybri and Trefor in the crowded hall and fall into step beside them.

“Morning Lorel,” says Trefor, grinning broadly. He’s always far too cheerful. Brown eyes always alight. A slight creature with steady hands.

Good morning. If either of them thinks it strange for me to be signing, neither comment. I push my glasses back up my nose as I fall in beside them.

“That was rotten luck yesterday,” says Trefor. I catch both of them giving me a look over, as if making sure I have all my limbs.

Sybri nods in agreement. She’s tall and willowy with dirty blonde hair and calculating amber-gold eyes that give me a sympathetic look. “I’m glad to see you survived the encounter.”

If I can just avoid a repeat, that would be wonderful.

“Let’s hope she won’t be down here again today. I’ve not seen her down here before,” says Trefor, confirming my suspicion from the day before.

“Unless she’s taken an interest?” says Sybri. “Though surely she has better things to do.”

Surely.

Unfortunately, my luck is indeed rotten. Or I am more cursed than I thought.

The door isn’t just open. The Librarian is standing there, leaning in the doorway with an air of boredom, watching us file past. The urge to run swells back to life, and I keep my head down and will myself to keep walking forward.

The rush of sound in my ears drowns out the rest of Sybri and Trefor’s conversation.

“Scribe,” the Librarian calls and with the way she says it, I know she can only mean me. She could at least have learned my name. I ignore her and a moment later, stumble over the air at my feet. Sybri catches me before I can test out whether my teeth will win against stone.

“Are you alright?” she asks. Trefor looks over her shoulder, concerned.

I’m fine, just tripping on my own feet.

The Librarian’s shadow falls over us, blocking the light from her office. The flow of scribes continues around her, each of them trying desperately to avoid.

“Scribe Sybri, Scribe Trefor, do you not have somewhere to be? Or do you intend to be tardy?” Both of them pale a little, though Sybri still seems unwilling to release me.

We both know she doesn’t have a choice. Neither of them are willing to learn what punishment a Librarian like her will give for being late.

Sybri gives my arm a squeeze and then Trefor is pulling her on with an apologetic look.

I don’t blame them in the least. It’s hardly their fault that I’ve come to a Librarian’s attention.

Librarian .

I press myself back against the wall. Her lovely face is set in a frown and fear that I have disappointed her wars with the desire for her to forget I exist. I must be losing my mind.

“Scribe. Are you well?” she asks. I want to hide my shaking hands behind my back, but I need to reply. Curse this fucking curse.

I’m fine. I need to get to my desk .

“You do not look fine,” she says. Which is rude. I looked perfectly fine when I left this morning. If I am not fine now then it can only be her fault.

How am I supposed to look? Even the hand signs feel snappy and frustrated. Turns out I can control my hands about as well as I can control my tongue.

The Librarian laughs, a soft thing that is far sweeter than it ought to be.

“As if you have taken your morning meal would be a start.” No .

She can’t possibly know that. “Though there is little to be done about it now, nor about your sleep schedule.” She reaches out, her fingers hovering a breath away from my cheek and the dark shadows under my eyes.

I should get to my desk.

“Hmm. If it is too much scribe, you need not push yourself,” she says. For a moment I think she might be exhibiting genuine concern, and then I remember that she is a Librarian and their only code is that the scribes are theirs to torment.

I’ll be late . I have as little desire to find out the penalty for being late as Sybri and Trefor do. Though of course, it would not be my doing.

The Librarian holds my gaze for a moment more, and then her hand is withdrawing. She steps back, the flow of scribes now a trickle of late comers.

“Very well, then,” she says. And then her head whips around, her hand striking out to catch a running scribe by the collar of their surcoat. The scribe tumbles to the ground at the Librarian’s feet.

“We are not so uncouth as to run in the scriptorium, Scribe Maxim,” she says.

I do not stay around to see what happens next. I do not know Maxim, but I offer up a silent thanks to him for giving me the chance to slip away. A desolate wail follows me, and I wince. If it is between me or him, well, sorry Maxim.

I make it to my desk before I let myself crumple into my seat, hiding my head in my hands and willing the tremors to stop.

Fear of a Librarian is normal, but this kind of response that causes my heart to race and the blood to rush to my ears?

It must be the only sensible response my body can muster as it tries to tell me to run and keep running.

I jump at a hand on my shoulder, but it’s only Elris, his face a beautiful picture of distress.

Are you alright?

He crouches next to me at the desk, rolled paper tucked under his arm.

I’m fine. Just tell me what you need done.

Colour washes again .

He unrolls the pages and slides them onto my desk. The shock of that neutralises the surging fear that had been running through my veins.

Again?

Elris grimaces as he signs back . I fetched the Librarian yesterday. I hadn’t realised Librarian Sila had started watching the scriptorium with such enthusiasm.

I blink at him. I skip over the fact he’s trying to make up for his blunder with a task he knows I enjoy, because I realise then that I hadn’t known her name.

Her name is Sila?

Elris’ face does something strange then. It’s an expression I can’t quite parse. Don’t get attached, he signs.

It’s a warning I don’t need, because I hadn’t even considered something so absurd.

I only hope that she forgets me. The sooner, the better.

Some of the tension eases from Elris’ shoulders. He gives me another apologetic smile before moving off to take up his own seat.

I settle the pages across my desk, deciding how best to tackle them.

My desk is wide enough for two pages to sit side by side, so that I can move between them while they dry.

At the top of the desk, assorted pots of paint are nestled into cavities to keep them steady.

A quick once-over tells me that there’s nothing I need to replace before I start.

My brushes hang where I had clipped them yesterday to dry and I collect them up, depositing them in a glass holder.

I’ll need fresh water, and to tuck all but the first two pages into the rack hanging under my desk.

The tasks are comfortingly familiar, among all the turmoil.

I’ve been doing this for years now, and there is an ease to laying down the colour Elris requires.

Perhaps it is because of the ease of the task that it leaves my mind blank to pick up each and every thought that flits across it.

No matter how pleased I am with the way the colour breaks across the paper, or how delighted I am at the way two colours curl together at a particular point, I cannot stop my swirling thoughts. And there are so many of them.

The Librarian, Sila, I can do nothing about, except continue to be my boring self.

Even the incident with the book doesn’t make me that interesting.

It isn’t like it’s rare to find a cursed book in the Library, after all.

It isn’t even unusual for harm to come to the residents of the Library, or to anyone in the Citadel for that matter.

It’s just how it is. Surely she will grow bored eventually.

Dread settles like ice in my chest at the thought. I tell myself it’s just the curse.

The curse is a problem. Recovering from touching a cursed object is one thing, being cursed by an inanimate object is another.

So much for being boring, because the Librarian surely knows I am cursed.

It’s one thing to think I am unwilling to speak from shock or hardship or injury.

It’s another to know I cannot make a single wisp of sound.

I can feel the phantom touch of her cool thumb pressed against my mouth.

Fuck , I need to think of something else.

I need to think about the curse instead.

If I can solve that, then maybe I can solve my Librarian problem.

I go through the motions of the morning, clawing my way through my memories for any clue or hint as I go. Pages set out to dry, new pages started. Brushes cleaned, paints tidied, desk wiped down.

Then comes the midday break, where I notice a sweet bun that was not on the menu has been placed on my tray. I’m tempted to ignore it, but it’s one of my favourites— a sweet bread with the little salty berries that grow in the deep caves under the Glade. I should leave it untouched.

Instead, I eat it with reluctant aggression as signed conversations happen around me. It’s fresh and annoyingly good. I resent its existence in my life.

When we return to our desks, Elris assigns me some pages for copying. I’ll need to do the first pass in graphite, before going over it again in ink. I take up the knife to sharpen my pencil. I’m still thinking on the book and the curse. Maybe if I can find the book, it will have some answers.

I realise I haven’t seen the book since the night I opened it. Someone must have returned it to the shelves. I fumble my pencil and it clatters to the floor.

Elris looks up as the blade passes neatly through the flesh of my left hand. I barely feel it. The knife is so sharp and the shock is immediate. Blood wells in the cut. I can’t make a sound in response, and that makes me want to laugh. I might be tumbling very quickly into hysteria.

I push my chair back with a screech against the stone, trying to prevent the blood from spilling over my desk and the fresh paper.

There are very few reasons a scribe might be allowed to break the work day silence.

Fortunately, this is one of them. Elris breaks it with a dignified and emphatic, “ Shit, Lorel.” It’s a close enough summary of what I wish I could say.

“Trefor, fetch the Librarian— Fuck .” Elris groans as our eyes meet.

It’s too late to stop Trefor, and we’re both kidding ourselves if we thought I could sneak out of here unnoticed while my hand is bleeding everywhere. Dawn King have mercy, so much for not drawing attention to myself.

Sybri has grabbed a clean paint rag, one of the clean, crisp white ones. She takes my hand, wrapping it as tightly as she can over the wound. My blood is thin and bright red as it soaks through.

“We’ll need to take you to the infirmary,” she says.

Elris carefully takes the knife from my other hand, as if I can’t be trusted with it any longer.

“At least it’s a clean cut,” he says. “Sybri, are you able?— ?”

Librarian Sila appears in the walkway, Trefor looking pale and apologetic behind her.

“Illuminator Elris, you may return to your work. I will take this from here.” She says this like she might be talking about any number of unpleasant tasks— like being civil or politely asking someone to keep their voice down. Elris clamps his mouth shut, nodding.

Of course, Librarian, he signs, stepping back.

Sybri lets go of my hand like she’s been burned, and with the look the Librarian has just levelled at her, I don’t blame her in the slightest. The Librarian’s eyes drop to the stone at my feet, taking note of the blood on the floor and my poor abandoned pencil. I eye her warily.

“Come,” she commands. I have no choice but to follow.