Page 69 of Liminal

Well, not reliably, at least.

“Breaking the frontiers of magical knowledge is the purview of academia.” Defensiveness is written in his every word. “Progress is simply the art of making what was previously impossible possible.”

But it’s not about progress or academic advancement, is it? I have met many arcanists with ambitions of that sort, and Galileo isn’t one of them.

He possesses none of the joy of discovery or zeal that I’ve encountered before. He’s far too watchful, too wary in thathawkish manner of his, and a heaviness lingers about him that doesn’t exist in those with little to lose and much to prove.

Whatever reasons Galileo Ó Rinn has, I bet they’re self-serving and desperate. I’ll also willingly set fire to the Clock Tower if this doesn’t have something to do with his ensorcellment.

“Humour me,” Galileo continues. “Surely, you’ve read something on it. Unless the Arcanaeum is truly as lacking in books on the subject as it appears?”

The shelves bristle. If there’s one thing the Arcanaeum can’t stand, it’s being told it’s lacking.

Its response is as predictable as it is vain, and I don’t bother trying to corral it this time. A cart rolls to a stop beside the nook, two tall stacks of books wobbling precariously atop it, along with a handful of scrolls on the shelf below and…

“Absolutely not,” I hiss, grabbing the grimoire from its unassuming place on the middle shelf.

Galileo’s icy eyes seize on it, gleaming, and he raises a brow. “Why not?”

“Texts from the Vault are not available to the public.” All of them tense, and I curse myself for mentioning the secret archive.

My deathbed aside, the Vault and its contents always felt too private to share. Those books were the lifelong companions of thousands of arcanists, now long dead, and deeply personal. The only reason I showed him the others was because they were too messed up to be of consequence.

“Whose is it?” Galileo asks, leaning back in a way that’s too casual. He’s not fooling anyone. That hawk’s gaze is fixed on the battered book in my arms, lingering on the stained cream cover.

I look down, though it’s not necessary. The Arcanaeum knows everything about this volume, and so do I.

“Ammie Talcott’s.”

There’s no mistaking the way his whole body jerks. It unnerves me so badly that I release the grimoire, and the Arcanaeum whisks it away.

“Anything you want.” That same desperation that edged his tone when I banished him is back. “Anything, Kyrith. Let me read that book and?—”

I’m backing away instinctively, but I don’t notice until Lambert kicks Leo hard under the table.

“Dude, you’re making her uncomfortable,” he interjects. “Dial it back. Remember what we talked about? You’ve got to smile at women if you want them to like you. You can’t just pressure them into stuff.”

His interjection draws Galileo’s intensity away from me for a second, giving me the presence of mind necessary to change the subject.

“You’re supposed to be focusing on your runeforms,” I remind him, nudging his books to bring his attention to them. “And Galileo has plenty of reading to be getting on with.” I roll the cart closer, putting it between us like the world’s least-subtle barricade.

North holds up his own grimoire, displaying a complete runeform, and I nod approvingly before I remember he’s an Ackland.

“Neatly done.”

It’s thin praise, but I swear the set of his shoulders relaxes slightly.

“Now cast it.”

His face scrunches up, and I grimace. “Stop, stop, stop. What are you doing?”

“He always looks like he’s trying to take a dump when he casts.” Lambert shrugs. “It’s one of his cute little liminal quirks.”

“I do not!” North rounds on his friend.

“Hey, no judgement, bro,” Lambert holds both hands up. “Whatever makes the magic flow.”

North elbows him as Galileo picks up a book from the cart, and I deem it safe enough to float closer.