Page 13 of Liminal

The unerring focus which he’s currently levelling on me doesn’t hinder the comparison, either.

But while all of those things would send an ordinary arcanist running for the hills, they make me aware of him in a completely different—and wholly inappropriate—way. Something that seems to only get annoyingly worse every time I see him.

Thank magic I can’t act on the impulse, or I might’ve made a complete fool of myself by now. Not that staring at him like a mute little mouse is helping my case, either.

“Sorry, Mr Talcott.”

He runs a hand through his short dreadlocks and offers me a curious quirk of his brow, an offer of concern that he won’t verbalise.

I could ask him about Northcliff. Though Dakari comes from a branch of his family which emigrated to Polynesia, he travels regularly as part of his work. He might have picked up some gossip along the way.

But, like a coward, I tap my fingers noiselessly against the desk and ask instead, “What have you got for me today?”

Reaching inside his heavy woollen coat, he pulls out a worn and battered book and places it on the desk between us.

“Beautiful,” I whisper, running my spectral hands across the worn blue cover, with the flaking copper foil inlay. “Risturi.”

Under my palms, the book begins to transform. Its warped pages straighten, the broken spine is mended, and the copper gilding glides back into place, forming a delicate lace around the title. Dakari watches without so much as a twitch, but some of the newer members cast sideways glances my way.

They’re not used to seeing me perform master-level magic without a grimoire—something which should be impossible. But Iamthe Arcanaeum. I have hundreds of grimoires linked to me and the magic of dozens of murdered arcanists at my fingertips.

Inside this building, I am infinitely powerful.

Yet, I cannot leave.

“It’s been a while since anyone brought me something this old.”

The Arcanaeum reaches through me, sifting through the pages. It’s like bearing witness to the excitement of a child presented with a birthday gift. The book opens, the pages twirling as the Arcanaeum’s magic bonds with it.

A few seconds later, it’s part of the collection, tied to me and the building forever. I know everything about its makeup, from the ingredients used in the ink to the height of the spruce which was felled to form the pages. Each book has a unique aura, and this one is cheerful and bright, boosting my mood just a little.

Carefully, I flick open the cover and lift a fresh checkout card from the drawer by my side and then stick it into the book using magic alone while Dakari watches. There’s no point to the cards anymore, given that the books cannot be removed, but the ones which belonged to the collection before I died still have them, and I like things to match. Dakari has never commented on the uselessness of the cards. I suspect that, like me, he enjoys the familiar ritual of it.

He’s been a collector for years, and he’s one of my best. Unlike the others, he doesn’t drop off the books, collect his money, and leave. He waits for me to finish, and occasionally, he’ll offer a few words about where his latest find came from.

“He’s a liminal.” Dakari’s voice rumbles through me. “But a strong one.”

“Who?” I ask.

He levels me with an unimpressed look. “Northcliff Ackland.”

Am I so easily read?I suppose I must be. Either that, or the gossip has travelled far already, which wouldn’t surprise me.

I imagine the Acklands are celebrating their return to greatness.

“He’s one of a number of bastards Josef’s begotten in hopes of wheedling his way back into the Arcanaeum.”

I knew the Ackland parriarch had many children, but I didn’t realise he was having them exclusively for that reason.

That level of desperation makes me uneasy.

A tug at my consciousness makes me frown, distracting me. A second later, a tiny drawer to my right pops open.

“Oh, the Arcanaeum has a request for you,” I mumble, surprised.

It’s not often that this happens. In fact, it must have been over a decade since the last one.

Dakari cocks his head to one side, confused. He’s not the only one.