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Dove

Three Rotations Past

T HUD . The book falls, making my whole-body jolt. My hand moves to my racing heart and I’m frozen hearing the scattered beating below my pinafore.

“Goddess, why must you test me?” I question the library stacks around me, brimming with untouched stories. Dust their only companion in this place.

I frown at the book near my leather booted feet. Giving it a slight nudge with the tip of my shoe, I push it to the side. Books rarely jump out at me while I am dusting the stacks. This is an odd occurrence.

Interest peeked, I crouch down.

“You should read it,” the childlike voice drifts through my mind.

Rolling my eyes at the dead sister who won’t leave me alone, I reach out a hand and run it over the worn pages, kicking up rotations worth of dust. I scrub at my face, brushing off any puffs of lingering flecks that make their way up towards my nose.

As the air clears, I look at a woman immortalised on paper. A familiar woman. “That’s her!” I whisper out loud to myself, the books my only companions in this place. Oh, and the sister lingering within my subconscious.

“Oooo, the statue in the tree,” Wren muses for only my ears. “I knew this library was haunted.”

“Yes, you are the one haunting it. Now let me concentrate,” I hiss. Technically, Wren is haunting me. She’s a pain in my arse, but she’s my pain in the arse and I wouldn’t have it any other way. What’s a girl to do when they lose their whole family at the age of eleven? You talk to your long lost twin sister in your head—that’s what happens. And that’s only the beginning.

Sighing loudly, I squint at the yellowing pages, trying to get a read on the symbols that move around the woman. But, no matter how hard I look, the letters make no sense to me. As far as I know, the Kingdom of Haven speaks the fae language, but maybe this language is even older?

Running my fingers around the words, my heart swells, my body feeling an odd need to know more, even though this text it different to any others I’ve seen before .

I flip the page over and find another picture. In black ink, sketched on once white paper, are small winged creatures. Eyes wide, I look closer. The small insect creatures almost look like butterflies, but they have non-existent bodies. They are all wings.

My finger itches to run over the creatures. “What are you?”

There’s writing on this page too, but it’s written in the same script that is unintelligible to me. I wish I knew how to read it. Learning about our kingdom’s smallest creatures has always been a bit of a hobby of mine. I’ve been drawing them since I first got my hands on a piece of charcoal.

Flipping over to the next page, I’m taken aback. “Dragon?!” The picture on the paper is big and imposing, wings stretched out wide, with a mouth that is billowing out—smoke? With its perfectly patterned scales and sharp teeth, I could easily imagine this is what the dragons of old once looked like. The one’s mother told us about when Wren and I would snuggle under the covers together and beg her for one more story. Before, my father would always ruin our fun.

She said they were just stories, tales from other villagers she’d heard growing up. Sometimes the dragon had two tails and one eye, sometimes the dragon had no legs, but this one—this one in the picture has one long curled tail, four legs, two eyes and sharp, pointed scales. This creature is impressive. This creature alters the chemistry of my heart because it also looks familiar.

It is what I imagined when my mother told us her stories and it looks exactly like the black beast that I can see curled within my chest. The dragon holding all of my secrets safe. The dragon created in memory of my mother.

My heart squeezing, I quickly flip the page .

“Oh, Goddess,” the words tumble from my lips.

“Looks like one scary giant spider thing to me.” Wren reminds me she’s still hanging around. She’s not far off, I guess, with eight long spindly legs. But, its body is thick, as are its legs.

“It can’t be a spider, its body is too big.”

THUD. Another book falls, making me shriek. This one lies closed a few feet across from my crouched position. The book looks similar in appearance to the old yellowing tome I’ve been flicking through on the floor. Intriguing . Looking up towards the tops of the towering stacks, I see nothing out of place. Not even a draft flows through this space.

How are books just falling like feathers on the wind?

Once again, my curiosity gets the better of me and brushing aside any lingering dust on the thick book I find some words that hold meaning for me. “A complete guide to fae history,” I read. “Includes both ancient fae and modern fae translations.”

What is ancient fae?

Neglecting my evening’s chores, I sit down on the floor and place the book in my crossed legs, flipping through its contents. My hands tremble as I scan the pages. Familiar and unfamiliar words stand out to me.

And I can’t help but think that this discovery is going to change everything.