Page 10 of The Enchanted Isles #1

10

L ewis and Vivienne ascended the sloping streets toward Crown Housing in silence. The rhythmic scuff of their boots against the cobblestones filled the quiet, but no sound could drown out the sting of Briar’s parting words. Vivienne had known Briar wouldn't take the news well, but she'd clung to some desperate hope that they could part on better terms. That she could offer comfort instead of heartache.

At the last crossroads, Lewis stopped. "I need to grab a few things before meeting you at the house."

Vivienne nodded absently, her thoughts already drifting elsewhere.

The last two blocks stretched longer than they should have, the familiar path to the Banner house suddenly foreign beneath her feet. She stopped before the front door, a lump forming in her throat. How much longer can I call this place home?

The weathered stone walls stood resilient against time, their rough texture softened by ivy creeping up one side. The steep roof, like the others in Crown Housing, was blanketed in terracotta tiles that caught the late-afternoon light, their warm hues glowing like embers.

Sage-green shutters framed the windows, the same shade her mother always said reminded her of summer meadows. Through those panes, she could just make out the interior of the ground floor, the spaces where laughter had echoed and quiet mornings had stretched into lazy afternoons filled with books and ink-stained hands.

Years of footsteps had carved a familiar trail to the doorstep, a path her father always swore he’d replace with stone but never did. The front garden, once wild and unruly, had been tamed into something practical, hardy wildflowers chosen for their resilience. Lewis had planted them himself, knowing none of the Banners had the time or patience to maintain a fussy garden.

She exhaled slowly, pushing open the heavy mahogany door, her fingers brushing over the intricate carvings. Delicate flowers and twisting vines curling around the pages of open novels.

Vivienne surveyed the towering bookshelves lining the central living space. Books filled every available inch, their spines a patchwork of faded parchment, embossed gold lettering, and hand-stitched bindings.

She traced a finger along the spine of a well-worn volume, its leather cover cool beneath her touch. Any chance there’s a book here that could tell me what to do now? How to handle all of this?

A firm, familiar rhythm of knocking sounded at the door. Lewis.

"It’s open," she called, still scanning the shelves as if they might suddenly yield the answers she needed.

Lewis stepped inside, the scent of damp earth and parchment clinging to him. "Hey," he greeted. "Find anything useful?"

Vivienne let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Not yet. I haven’t stumbled across a how-to guide for ‘your parents are lost at sea, and you’re being strong-armed into an absurd quest to break a fictional curse.’"

Lewis’ mouth curved upward. "Shame. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere—probably shelved next to ‘So You’ve Been Given an Impossible Ultimatum by Your Monarch.’" He rocked back on his heels, avoiding eye contact. “Call me crazy…” he took a deep, noisy inhale, “I think the curse might be real.”

Vivienne’s gaze snapped to his face, her expression frozen in expectation. She waited for the punchline, a smirk, a repressed laugh, or any indication this was one of his usual jokes.

"I know, I know," he said, hands raised in mock surrender. "But hear me out."

With a satisfying thud, he swung an oversized canvas tote onto the dining table, the weight of it rattling the dishes.

"While you were still passed out this morning, I did some research—don't look at me like that. I remember where the library is even when you're not babysitting me."

Vivienne gave a short, breathy chuckle. "It sounds like you visited the fiction section."

Lewis rolled his eyes, "Are you going to listen to my theories or just sit there all judgy?"

She mimed locking her lips, tossed the imaginary key over her shoulder, and sat at the dining table, crossing one leg over the other.

Lewis reached into the tote, pulled out the first of many books, and flipped to an earmarked page. "The King said Velorien, god of justice and balance, cast a bloodline curse so Fendwyr couldn’t have children." He turned the book toward her. "Look at this."

Vivienne scanned the page, her smirk faltering.

"In the last thirty years, the birth rate in Fendwyr has plummeted. The replacement rate used to be an average of three children per family. Within the first decade of that time period, that number dropped to an average of less than one child per family."

He flipped to another page, the paper whispering between his fingers. "Last year, only sixteen births were recorded?—"

"In Vantner?" she interrupted, her voice more impatient than she intended.

"No," he said, holding her gaze. "In all of Fendwyr."

Her skin prickled, her intuition sending a warning.

"And," Lewis continued, rummaging through the bag for another book, his excitement tinged with something more serious, more urgent. "Of those sixteen births, twelve of the mothers crossed the Fendwyrian border after they’d conceived."

Vivienne gripped the edge of the table. "What about the other four?"

Lewis exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I have no idea. Curses must not be an exact science."

She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. "So, we have fewer babies being born. That still doesn’t prove we’re cursed."

Lewis wagged a finger, his golden-brown eyes gleaming. "Ah, but there’s more."

From the depths of the tote, he pulled out something distinctly different from the rest. A ledger. Not a book, this was an official record. Vivienne took a nervous swallow, her throat visibly bobbing.

"That’s not from the library," she muttered, glancing between Lewis and the aged, red-bound tome.

"It’s the least the Chancellor can do for us at this point," Lewis said, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "I’ll return it before he notices it’s missing."

He cracked open the stiff binding, the leather creaking in protest, and slid the ledger across the table. "Read down this page and tell me these are normal Crown transactions."

Vivienne skated her fingertips down the list, murmuring as she read: "Midwife, Chemist, Herbalist, Priest… these all seem normal to me."

"Keep going," Lewis urged.

"Cleric, Alchemist, Monk, Astrologist," her voice grew quieter, her pulse louder. "Shaman, Druid, Occultist, Fae Consultant, Rune Master..." She stilled, her breath catching.

" Necromancer? " she whispered, shock spilling through her widened eyes.

Lewis planted both hands on the ledger, his expression serious, intense.

"If the curse isn’t real, then why in the everdark would King Berius waste a fortune hiring this circus of weirdos, witches, and—" he tapped the page, "gods damned necromancers ?"

Vivienne's stomach twisted into knots. Although saying it made her nauseous, she managed, "It’s possible the King is infertile and refuses to acknowledge it."

Lewis dragged a hand through his hair, considering. "Maybe, but that still wouldn’t explain the kingdom-wide collapse in birth rates."

Vivienne looked up and to the side, scouring the archives of her studies. She tilted her head, teeth pressing into the soft flesh of her cheek. It’s impossible. Isn’t it? There had to be something else. Something all those so-called specialists failed to uncover.

She leaned forward, fingers flipping through the brittle pages of the ledger, Lewis hovering at her shoulder. The entries stretched on, row after meticulous row of transactions between the King and an assortment of mystics, scholars, and self-proclaimed experts. Then her gaze snagged on a familiar name, not on a single entry, but filling the rest of the page.

Antiquary. Her held breath burned in her lungs. Banner, William. Banner, Liana. Vivienne’s pulse kicked, stumbling over itself.

"Why…" she whispered, her throat tight, "why would my parents be listed in the same ledger as these charlatans and hacks?"

Lewis shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his palms together. "It confirms what the King told us yesterday," he said, his voice measured. "Your parents weren’t doing antiquarian research. They were researching how to break the curse."

"No." The word shot from her lips like an arrow. Her breath came quicker, hotter. "So, they've been lying to me? To you, to Briar, to everyone for years?"

Lewis winced, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "I wouldn’t call it lying," he hedged, "so much as leaving out a shit-ton of information."

The sting of betrayal burned behind her eyes, a pressure building in her chest, tight and suffocating. Her fingers curled into fists as a slow heat crawled up her spine, anger licking at the edges of her control.

"What else?" she demanded, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Lewis exhaled, stacking the books in a methodical row as he spoke. "School records showing a drop in enrollment. Medical logbooks documenting increased infertility. Genealogical charts where family lines just... disappear over the last two generations."

Vivienne's breath shuddered out of her. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the table, gripping the edge as though the ground itself might give way.

Her voice turned quiet, razor-sharp. "All of this, and they couldn’t be bothered to tell me? What else have they kept from me?”

Did they delay my promotion because they couldn't stomach the idea of me finding out their piety, their superiority was all bullshit? Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out reason.

"A lifetime," she seethed, "of them picking me apart for every tiny mistake, for my weight, my hair, every godsforsaken thing, for what? So I'd be too busy hating myself to notice they were sellouts and hypocrites?" Her breath came ragged, uneven. "They held me to impossible standards while they spent decades chasing ghosts and myths?"

Her vision blurred. The pressure in her chest snapped. “Fuck that!”

The chair scraped against the floor as she shot to her feet, grabbed the nearest book, and hurled it across the room.

Lewis flinched, arms flying up in defense. "Viv!"

The book thumped against the far wall, sliding to the floor in a heap of crumpled pages.

Vivienne paced, chest heaving, guilt sinking its claws into her gut. She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing herself to steady. Great. I’m a puppet for my parents, and now I’m a book-throwing lunatic.

Lewis crossed the room, crouched, and picked up the book with careful hands. His fingers ran over the bent spine, smoothing the cover as if soothing a wounded creature.

"She didn't mean it," he murmured to the book.

Vivienne's throat closed. She couldn’t meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, Lewis," she whispered, voice fragile as glass.

"I know," he said, soft but certain, eyes fixed on the ground.

They had never been good at sitting in heavy emotions. Vivienne's instinct was to ignore the feeling, shove it aside, change the subject. Lewis always turned to humor to break the tension.

"You should also apologize to the book," he said, lips quirking into a small, lopsided smile. "You work in a library, for gods’ sake. That was uncalled for."

A breath hitched in her throat—a huff of something close to laughter.

"I'm sorry, book," she muttered.

Lewis clutched the book to his chest in mock relief. "Much better."

He motioned toward the pile of books still looming on the table. "Let’s take a break from unpacking your family’s deeply questionable history," he said. "We should probably pack for tomorrow before we get ourselves executed for procrastination."

* * *

Vivienne surveyed the open trunk, its contents a disorganized mix of necessity and hesitation. The Chancellor’s office had sent a note stating they’d be picked up at precisely 9:00 a.m. on Sunday and that was it. No guidance, no packing suggestions, no checklist.

She’d included layers for shifting climates, the two pairs of boots she owned, and a handful of hygiene essentials. But what about comfort items? Luxuries? Would they allow an extra trunk for books? If so, which ones? Languages? But which ones? Plant guides? That’s what Lewis is for. Mythology? Maybe.

She padded downstairs, running her fingers along the book spines on the living room shelves, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. Her gaze drifted to the closed door off to the side, leading to her parents' room. The door had remained shut since they’d left. Strictly off-limits. She and Briar had never been allowed inside, but another bookcase sat in there, one Vivienne thought might hold something useful.

With a steadying breath, she gripped the handle and twisted.

The scent of honeysuckle and parchment enveloped her, its familiarity punching a hole in her chest. The bed was still made the way her mother always kept it, crisp, precise.

Vivienne strode to the bookcase in the far corner, eyes scanning titles. The books mirrored those in the central space—nothing new, nothing helpful.

As she turned to leave, her foot caught on something uneven.

Frowning, she looked down. One of the floorboards near the bed sat slightly raised, just a fraction off from the others.

She knelt, fingers tracing the seam. Loose.

A soft creak filled the silence as she pried it open, revealing a hidden book.

Not a book. A journal.

The leather cover was worn, edges softened by time and handling. Pressed flowers adorned the front in the same intricate pattern carved into their mahogany door.

Vivienne exhaled sharply, hands trembling as she lifted it free.

Her mother’s elegant, looping handwriting filled the pages, dispersed between intricate sketches. Rough maps of places she didn’t recognize. Exotic plants, annotated in the margins with notes and theories. She flipped faster, her breath stammered. One page stopped her cold. Oh my gods, it’s an island.

Vivienne stared, her heart hammering. The sketch stretched across the page in a graceful arc of land with clearly marked waterfalls, rivers, rock formations, and a strange leafless tree. Beneath the illustration, in her mother’s careful script, the label read Isle of Verdance .

A series of other islands followed, each with fewer details than the last, as if her mother hadn’t returned to finish mapping them. Some were nothing more than a question mark and a guess at their locations.

The front door rattled with a familiar knock before swinging open.

“Viv?” Lewis’s footsteps approached, then halted at the bedroom threshold.

His jaw slackened, eyes darting from her to the displaced floorboard.

“Viv!” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder like a guilty accomplice. “Are you trying to get us in trouble? You’ve never—” His gaze landed on the journal in her lap. Realization dawned. “Oh, gods. Are you snooping?” His hands flew to his hair, raking through the strands in exasperation.

Vivienne secured the floorboard back into place, expression unreadable. “It’s not like they’ll find out, unless you plan on tattling.”

Lewis snorted, arms crossing. “And incriminate myself? Hard pass.” His attention flicked to the journal. “Do I want to know what’s in that?”

Vivienne considered the possibility of deeply personal entries. If she'd found something too intimate she wasn’t sure if she’d have sealed the book beneath the floorboards or burned it outright.

“Ugh, no,” she grimaced. “I think my mom left us a map. Or…” she hesitated, “as close to a map as we’re going to get.”

Lewis’s eyes sharpened with intrigue, glasses sliding down his nose. “A map?”

Despite sorting through her feelings around her parents’ dishonesty and secret lives, the journal felt like an olive branch of sorts. Sure, it’s an olive branch I stole from my mother’s room, but it still feels like a sign.

Vivienne led him to the dining table, flipping through the pages. “Look at this.”

Lewis leaned in, fingers ghosting over the inked lines.

“My mom mapped these islands. The terrain, the rivers, the climate…”

Lewis held up his hands in mock surrender. “I hate to be this guy,” he said, cautious, “but how do we know she wasn’t just—” he gestured vaguely, “daydreaming?”

Vivienne stabbed a finger at a page. “Do your daydreams include latitude, longitude, and cardinal directions?”

Lewis tilted his head, weighing her point. “No… but your mom was always an overachiever.”

Vivienne huffed out a breath, heartbeat steadying. “If the curse is real,” she said carefully, “then it’s not a stretch to think my mom left us?—”

“A treasure map?” he cut in, eyes alight with mischief.

Vivienne’s lips twitched. “Not a treasure map.”

The corners of her mouth curled into something smug.

“A study guide.”