Page 73 of Liminal

“And no streaming services either,” Dakari adds. “You might have to read a book.”

Jasper waves him off. “I don’t mind reading. I just… It feels like I don’t spend days without magic often, even though I have no memory to back that up.”

That lines up with my theory that the Carltons were forcing him to use his magic repeatedly.

“You think they wanted you for your restoration skills?” Dakari prods.

“Restoration?” I drift away. “That’s master level magic.” Too advanced for someone who was taken as a teenager, surely?

Jasper blushes, his cheeks darkening endearingly. “I was always good at it.”

“A prodigy,” Dakari corrects. “Your father used to tell anyone who would listen that you were going to change the world.”

Jasper gives a soft, self-depreciating chuckle. “I think he may have spoken too soon there.”

“You’re hardly in your dotage,” I mutter grumpily. “Most arcanists don’t achieve anything of note before their fourth decade—it takes them that long to pull their heads out of their backsides. Now, go and do something. Take a walk. Your muscles will thank you for it.”

Not that his muscles need much help right now.

Agh! Stop. Noticing. Them.

“And do up your shirt,” I tack on, my tone a little too harsh to be innocent. “This is a respectable Arcanaeum.”

Jasper’s lips quirk. “Aye, mistress.”

The words are said jokingly, but if I still possessed the ability, my mouth would be bone dry. Those two little words, delivered by those lips, are sinful. Worse still, Dakari has noticed the way I’ve frozen. One of his eyebrows—the scarred one—lifts in a silent question that I will nevereverdignify with an answer.

I whisk myself away from the room without another word, heading straight for my tower with a groan.

“Magic save me from attractive arcanists,” I mutter, flopping over the bed.

Only to frown when I see a poorly bound modern romance novel on the pillow.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” I ask the Arcanaeum, picking up the book—which has a blue-haired lady on the cover—and gingerly chucking it onto the nightstand. “Or are you judging me for what is a completely natural response to attractive men? I’mdead, not blind.”

I can feel the building’s laughter, and I hate it for it.

“If I were alive…” I mutter, not daring to finish the sentence.

Against my better judgement, I pick the book back up and start to read. I instantly regret my choice. Modern writing doesn’t repulse me like so many of the older patrons, but what I don’t enjoy is being horny when I can’t do anything about it. According to the blurb, this girl has six horny aliens at her beck and call.

Ugh, I suppose it’s too late now.

It’sa blessing and a curse when the Arcanaeum tugs at my consciousness, and I have no choice but to reappear in the Lineage Room. So much of me wants to be annoyed at the disruption, but at the same time, I know I’m just taunting myself with fantasies about what I’ll never have.

The circular tower-top room is probably one of the sparsest sections in the library, containing a mere six mahogany bookcases—one for each of the families—and a handful of comfy chairs. Patrons rarely come here. Arcanists tend to keep meticulous records of their own, mapping each of their liminal offshoots with careful precision.

So when I spot Jasper struggling to liberate a book from the Carlton section, my brows furrow.

“Can I help you?”

He turns those deep brown eyes on me, and a sheepish blush graces his cheekbones.

“I was just… I mean, I can’t seem to—” He gestures at the shelf with one hand while pushing a few escaped strands of hair back from his face with the other. “The books are stuck.”

Oh. Of course.

“You don’t have a library card.”