Page 9 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)
Itissa
“ S till shaken up by what you saw?” Sadrie follows my sight line to where a sliver of the compost shed is visible between clean, damp towels.
Finished with our chores, the three of us lounge on the grassy knoll between our residence and the greenhouses, where the laundry lines are strung between bare-branched trees. Sadrie just finished hanging the last of it, lowering herself to the ground between me and Cordelia.
The latter has recently been apprised of the situation I witnessed the other day.
“The whole thing was so bizarre. It doesn’t sit right with me. How are neither of them injured? And what about the moaning I heard?”
“Are you sure it was a pleasure moan?” asks Cordelia, voice gentle. “You saw the blood. It might have been from pain.”
An acrid smell wafts off of her, stinging my nostrils through the scents of soap and lavender.
Despite the long-sleeved duster Cordelia wears to tend the apiary, smoke meant to calm the bees still seeps through to her clothes.
At least she’s allowed to protect her tightly coiled hair with a silk bonnet beneath her veiled hat.
I exhale sharply through my nose. You weren’t there. I know passion when I hear it.
My friends spend the next twenty minutes discussing today’s lesson. I try to pay attention, but my mind keeps drifting back to Kerrigan and Rosalie.
I’m so lost in thought that Sadrie’s hand brushing my shoulder is startling. “Been looking for this?” she murmurs, pulling a crisp brown leaf from the loose ends of my braided hair.
It takes a moment to register her joke. A silly giggle bubbles out of me when I do. “My favorite leaf! I’ve been searching everywhere.”
She presses her shoulder into mine. “I thought as much.” Slipping the leaf behind my ear with a wink, she skims her fingers past my jaw.
My heart lunges into rapid motion, as much from the contact as from her effort to divert my attention . The ghost of her touch burns on my skin long after she drops her hand.
“You ladies enjoy the afternoon.” Cordelia’s eyes dart between us. “I need to wash the smoke off me. I’ll see you both at dinner.” She gets to her feet, and we say our goodbyes.
Once she leaves, Sadrie’s hand lands on my wrist. “Come with me to see the orrery.”
My friend leads us past the Waymark to a circular tower capped with a blue tile roof at the base of an escarpment. Once inside, I gasp.
Late afternoon light cascades from a ring of windows four stories overhead, bathing the breathtaking clockwork solar system.
Dead center, a spinning metal orb is mounted to the central axis like a gyroscope, representing the sun. A network of turning gears and slowly rotating metal arms link individual planets, each spinning on its own separate axis. Most of the planets have moons orbiting them in turn.
The whole contraption is housed within a series of giant metal rings, marked with notches to indicate days, months, years, solstices, and equinoxes.
The orrery dwarfs us, sprawling across the middle of the room and rising two stories amid drifting dust motes. It emits layered mechanical ticking, making the room sound as if it’s full of clocks.
“Blessed Aodh, Father of Creation.”
“Told you it’s spectacular,” gushes Sadrie. “What do you think?”
“Well, I see why you’re so impressed.”
Bookshelves line the ground floor walls, interrupted by windows framing cozy reading alcoves. Mezzanine walkways on the second and third levels encircle the room, connected by spiral staircases.
Blue eyes sparkling, Sadrie grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s get a better look.”
I can’t help cackling as we race each other to the second-level mezzanine, then the third. We circle the clockwork model, viewing it from different angles and speculating about the lottery in two days.
We run out of things to gossip about, and our chatter ceases. I mention wanting to browse the books on the ground floor. As Sadrie prefers to stay on the top level a while longer, we decide to split up.
I descend the spiral stairs and flip through a few leather-bound volumes on astronomy and mathematics. The section gives way to myths and legends, where I linger a bit longer.
I’m halfway along the circular wall from where I started and a third through a paragraph when I realize, with a start, that it’s not written in the Kinvarrean language—what we call the “common tongue”—at all.
My feet come to a halt while I gape at the foreign-yet-familiar words.
Rogatian. My brain effortlessly names the language. I understand Rogatian.
At last! A vital clue about my identity.
Giddiness shoots through me, followed by a subtle, anxious fear. It’s like passing my hand too close to a flame, blistering the skin.
Flabbergasted, I leaf through the pages, scanning and comprehending but not really absorbing folktales from across the border. I open another Rogation book, and another. My brain instantly translates every word.
With shaking hands, I replace the last volume before pacing down a little further, feeling like my past is taunting me from beyond an intangible divide.
A chill squirms down my spine as soon as I open the next book. I freeze, my mind automatically translating the introduction to a collection of Aritertan myths as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Shit,” I say, completely dumbfounded. How many languages do I know?
I drop my hands, letting the volume dangle. I desperately need to sit down.