Page 7 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely (A Curse of Fallen Stars #1)

Sila

A screech of wood against stone carves its way through my thoughts. The sound is a warning, sending a wave of alarm washing over me. Like diving into winter-chilled water. Like sipping poison. It goes as quickly as it comes, replaced by a familiar and comfortable irritation.

The scribes. The Dark Lady curse them if someone is merely dragging their chair across the flagstones. I am on my feet without a second thought, in no mood for carelessness. I might have to take an ear for it.

My boots click swiftly across the stones, the occasional scribe peeking out from their sections and quickly ducking away when they see me.

That, at least, is as it should be. I make my way in the direction of the noise, unease growing in me as my footsteps take me closer to the section my scribe works in.

And then someone screams. I hasten my pace.

My heart cannot race like hers can, but it can still scream in protest. Still constrict and contort itself in wordless agony.

In fear, an old friend that has been absent for a long while.

When I step between the shelves, I find a sedate kind of chaos.

The screaming scribe cuts off at my appearance.

My scribe, Lorel, sways in her seat. A thin red trickle of blood leaks from her nose, dripping over her lips.

Her eyes, usually so sharp, are unfocused behind her glasses.

She blinks slowly and then her body is crumpling, her skull destined for impact with the floor.

I should let it happen. Let her head hit the ground and crack over the stones. The insignificant trickle of blood should mean nothing to me. But it’s so bright and vibrant. So full of life.

I am moving again, carelessly and without thought.

If I had thought for a moment, then surely I would have let it happen.

It would solve a problem, fulfil my Dark Lady’s command.

I catch her body with my own and she is a pale scrap of a thing in my arms. Her head rolls back against my shoulder, her mouth open, her body a dead weight.

I can feel it through my fingertips, see it in the eyes of the dead scribe, folded over his desk.

Poison. Pain strikes through the heart of me.

Someone has tried to poison my scribe. My mark.

“You, Scribe Mella,” I say to the living scribe. “Find assistance for these two. Get them to the infirmary immediately. If you ask questions, or fail, I will have your eyes for disobedience.”

“Y-yes Librarian, I— uh— Scribe Trefor—” she starts.

“Is dead, leave him. He does not need us. Now move ,” I command.

By the grace of my Dark Lady, she moves, calling out to break the silence.

I lift Lorel into my arms, and give the other scribes no further thought.

I would have gone already, but I will never hear the end of it from Mercias if I let the blond one die.

Lorel’s head rests against my shoulder, her breathing laboured where it flutters against my skin. All I need to do is stop and let her go. Let her follow her fellow scribe into the dark. But while I curse myself as I walk, I do not slow.

There is something unbearable in the thought of her heart stilled.

For months now, I have watched her. She was just one of many scribes. Delightful to torment as they are, she is no different from them. There was nothing to suggest that she might be the one my Dark Lady had marked for death. There was no reason for it to be her.

I watched her, night after night, practising late, missing her meal times. She was so determined. And only I knew it. It was our little secret, her quiet unspoken ambition. Such a sweet thing. An ill-fated thing, too.

This is not even the first time I had found her dying, though she claimed to remember nothing of it. I could only envy her that. I fought to not think of it, for to do so was to invite feelings I should not be having.

Naturally, I thought of it often.

I found her clawing her way through her own skin and crushing herself against the wall.

I should have killed her then, but she had reached for me when I approached.

Pressed herself against my body desperately and I had convinced myself that her illness was not the sign I was looking for. I had so badly wanted that to be true.

It is impossible to deny it now. Lorel is the one my Dark Lady wishes dead. Shadows take me, I need to just let her die already.

Instead, I shoulder through the doors of the infirmary. Every part of me recoils at the thought of her cold and still and beyond my reach.

“Healer—” I call out. Gella, one of the junior healers, appears at my shoulder. “Poison,” I tell her.

“Dawn King have mercy— Clairabel, fetch Lune. She’s in the apothecary,” says the Gella, calling out to another healer nearby.

“Right away,” Clairabel replies. She drops what she is doing to scurry out the back of the infirmary.

“Bring her in here, Librarian,” Gella instructs, leading me to the private rooms off to the side.

“There are others,” I tell her as we walk down the hallway. “Two more if you are lucky.”

“Let’s hope we are,” Gella says, throwing open a door. “Here. I’ll send Lune along.”

I lay Lorel down on the bed, with a care I rarely afford anything. As if she is some fragile thing, as likely to shatter on a cushioned mattress as she is on stone. And she is so fragile, with her fleeting little life and her bat-wing flutter of a pulse.

I kneel at her bedside and push her hair back behind her ear, her skin soft and burning under my fingertips. Somehow, she is still breathing. I take her glasses off, impatient that the Cupbearer is taking so long.

I set her glasses aside on the bedside table and hover there. I could smother her in shadows, and she would never know. She wouldn’t suffer. There would be no awkward questions, given I suspect she should not even be alive. I doubt anyone will expect her to survive.

My fingers twitch, and the shadows thicken for just a moment, and then the Cupbearer is at my side with all her usual noise. At least her care for Lorel, for my scribe, is genuine. I let the shadows go. It is out of my hands now.

“I leave her to your care, Cupbearer,” I say, turning on my heel.

I can be of no use here, just standing there staring at her like a light-struck rat.

If there is anyone who can help her, it will be the wretched Cupbearer.

There is no one that could administer the correct antidote better than the King’s poisoner herself.

I step aside for the other healers and scribes as they rush past me. I gather from their hurry that, for now, they all still breathe. I do not care about them, though. I shouldn’t care about any of them.

When I am finally alone in a corridor, I pass into the shadows, embracing that dark space in between. No one will be able to hear me scream here.

How many months had it been since I started watching her?

I had been presented with so many opportunities.

My scribe is so prone to misfortune that she should have been easy to do away with.

I tear at my hair and it comes away as shadow.

I scream from deep within my chest, letting loose every bit of frustration.

Somewhere under my heart, one of my two tethers is stretched taut.

There is one for the Heart of the Library, to which I am pledged as a Librarian.

The other ties me to my Dark Lady, Queen of the Eventide Court.

The only thing keeping me anchored to the world and the only thing preventing me from fading away like so many of my kind before me.

It is pulling at me, tugging at my soul, and stretching to breaking point. Time is running out.

I will have to kill her tonight. Because if Lorel does not die, then I will.