by Gina LaManna
She punched my shoulder. “I really don’t feel right leaving you alone in here.”
“I can leave if you need, I just figured…” I trailed off, gesturing to the stack of books. “I’m so close—but never mind, I can finish next week.”
“No, wait,” Millie said quickly. “I understand, I really do.” She hesitated, struggling with the decision for a moment. “Miss Flutterbing doesn’t mind if we stay late, so long as the janitors are still here. They do the final lock up around nine. Do you think you can be done by then?”
“That’d be perfect!”
“Great. Well, I’ll tell Hector, the janitor, to see you out before he closes then, and I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As she headed out, it dawned on me that there were no windows in this space—no wonder I hadn’t noticed the darkening sky or the descent of the sun. Even though I’d never reach Millie’s status of bookworm, I could understand why she was always late to things.
The smell of dust, the ancient words, the promise of tales that would tingle the scalp and warm the heart or freeze the soul…books had their own sort of magic, I realized as I finished off the stack.
No, Ainsley, I told myself as I glanced toward the string dangling from the trapdoor. Finish your work and go home.
That little voice kept right on speaking to me as I finished up the day’s work. When the last book was hugging its rightful partners on the shelves, I did a slow twirl in the middle of the room and looked at all of it. All these words, all the authors writing down stories, all the people who did the things worth writing about…there were so many things worth writing about—adventures, love, tragedy…prophecies.
I fought an internal battle with myself for longer than I would like to admit. I was there, alone, and now was my grand opportunity to do some sneaking. I reached for the string on the trapdoor, and then at the last second, I sighed.
I couldn’t do it.
Somehow, I already liked my job too much to jeopardize it by going places that were off limits. Even more importantly, I liked Millie, and I didn’t want to get her in trouble for inviting me here.
I breathed a final, satisfied breath of relief, and then whispered a spell that caused the candles to dim down to a low burn. Feeling like a proud mama hen tucking her chicks into bed, I headed for the door. While human titles faced outward on the opposite side of the wall, this side boasted an array of magical books. I selected the exact one Millie had used to exit and ran my finger down the spine.
Humming a happy tune, I waited a few seconds, thinking how proud my mother would be that I put in an honest day’s work—one that didn’t involve shooting guns, hiding from monsters, or doing the whole ‘badass’ thing I normally loved.
Eventually, I got sick of waiting for the doors to open, so I ran my finger along the book’s spine again. And then again. Then, I frowned and tried it one last time.
Nothing.
I leaned in closer, reading the title on the spine of the book. Fittingly for a doorway, it was called The Split. The subtitle went on to say: The separation story between humans and magical folks—the good, the bad, and the really, really funny things.
I tried again, and then again, and again. Finally, my finger moved up and down that spine so many times I feared it’d catch on fire. When the spine warmed beneath my fingers from all the rubbing, I stepped back and crossed my arms.
My humming had stalled to a stop, and my eyebrows pulled together in thought. I was sure this was the right book. I’d made a note of it in my head. However, just in case, I stroked my finger on the spine of a few more books. After twenty minutes, I’d tried all the books within a generous radius of the splitting point.
As I slipped my phone from my pocket, I took one look at the service bars—well, the lack thereof—and put it right back. That’s when I started to worry. Had Hector forgotten about me? Or had Millie—lovable, forgetful Millie—completely forgotten to mention my presence to the janitor? I wouldn’t put it past her to get lost in a book somewhere between here and the front door, completely forgetting that she’d promised me a way out of this room.
Attempting to stay calm, I paced around the edges of the room. No windows magically appeared, which was unfortunate since I was hoping to fly my broomstick out of one.
My panic grew. I started in on the desperate measures—pounding on the door, shouting for help, jumping up and down in hopes someone below heard the racket, but nothing helped.
When I tired from all the bouncing around, I sat on the floor and waited, twiddling my thumbs. Every now and again I called out or tried to swipe my finger across the books again, but there was never any answer. I wondered if Harry was floating around at home in his tank, wondering when his dinner would arrive. Poor Harry. Poor me! I needed dinner, too.
To combat the boredom, I built myself a little nest on one of the cushy couches and wrapped myself in some slightly musty but freshly laundered throw pillows and blankets. Then I selected a book off the shelves.
I picked A GIRL’S GUIDE TO GUYS: A handbook for witches interested in the mortal type, and I set to reading, telling myself it had nothing to do with that human detective who kept poking his nose into my business and making my stomach melt with his beautiful eyes.
The book was good, filled with somewhat helpful, though not exactly genius advice.
Tip #1: Do not use spells to grow long hair overnight, to give yourself a perm, or to highlight your ends in five minutes. Sudden spurts of hair growth and change lead to difficult questions from humans who are not used to this behavior.
Then, there was the parental advice.
Tip #2: Never introduce your parents to a mortal girlfriend/boyfriend unless you are married. They will ruin things on accident, no matter how much your mother and father love you.
I was just getting into a section on how to raise children in a half-magic, half-human home when my eyelids began to droop, and suddenly I was drifting off to sleep, amber-eyed children running through my dreams.
Chapter 18
I woke to a muffled sound, and then a thump.
Peeling the pages off my face, I realized I’d fallen asleep balancing the book in my hands. The thump was it hitting my forehead as I woke.
“Book,” I mumbled, drunk on sleep. “Hector?”
Hauling myself into a sitting position, I ran a hand over my eyes and paused, waiting for my vision to clear. Still no Hector, and still no company. Clearly, I hadn’t slept through the night. If I had to guess, I’d probably only been out an hour or two—any longer and my muscles would’ve been too stiff to move.
The library was dark and quiet, the candles mere glimmers against the wall. The lack of windows made time seem liquid here, unquantifiable.
Waiting, I watched the shadows for a clue as to what had jolted me awake. When no monsters emerged, I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled toward the doorway.
I swiped my finger against the spine of the book, but it didn’t have any effect whatsoever. Was it my touch that was wrong, or had the shelves rebelled? Maybe there was some automatic lockdown that went into place after a certain hour that Millie hadn’t known about. Whatever the case, I was stuck.
I sat there for a few minutes, but no amount of calling out or knocking got me any further than it had before. Spinning around, I headed back toward the couch, resigned to hunker down and await Millie’s rescue with the morning light.
However, something caught my eye along the way, and I changed course, my feet leading me toward a ray of light in the distance, a small square on the ground, brightly lit in thin, rigid lines.
Pulled toward it by some imaginary force, I found myself entranced by the light, suddenly oblivious to the shrinking tunnel around me with the lowered ceilings and darkened space. Before I knew it, I’d reached the square. Above it sat the trapdoor.
“Windows,” I murmured. There must be windows in the attic.
I took a step back and glanced up. Sure enough, the door was outlined in a yell
owish haze, backlit by what I could only imagine was the moonlight. I shouldn’t go up there, I thought.
I knew that thought was correct, but a nagging in the back of my brain told me that light meant windows, and windows meant a way outside. A way outside would get me home. It’d get food in my stomach and a bed for me to sleep in, and it might also get me in trouble.
I sighed, weighing the pros and cons of climbing into the forbidden attic. On one hand, maybe it wouldn’t kill me to wait a few more minutes—or would it be hours?—until the library opened and someone let me out. On the other hand, my stomach was growling loud enough to wake sleeping giants.
After a solid ten minutes of poking around the edges of the trapdoor looking for signs of hexes, charms, or other deadly spells, I came away with nothing. It wasn’t that there couldn’t be something horrible waiting for me just on the other side of the door but, strangely enough, this side of the wooden panel felt utterly bland.
After another several minutes spent hemming and hawing over the consequences of pulling the release string, I finally convinced myself that if our positions had been reversed, Millie would’ve gone into the attic.
After all, it was just books up there. Books weren’t all that harmful. I promised myself I wouldn’t touch anything, wouldn’t poke around, wouldn’t be tempted by alluring titles or brilliant covers or words that made my mind drool. Maybe I could go inside, just for a minute. I’d climb up and proceed straight out the window. I’d lock up and go home. Maybe Millie would even laugh about what happened when I told her.
Finally, a nauseating cramp of hunger confirmed my decision. Reaching for the rope, I gave a tug, slowly at first, hesitantly. When it didn’t budge, I pulled harder. Finally, I retrieved my broomstick and hovered above the ground, yanking at the door with all my strength.
It didn’t just open, it crumbled. The door tumbled down like Jacob’s Ladder, leaving an open square in the ceiling. The moonlight that had seeped through the cracks now brightened the entire room. It probably wasn’t much past nine in the evening, but it felt as if a whole day had gone by.
I zoomed out of the way on my broomstick. When I managed to turn around, I could barely hide my gasp of horror. A ladder rose from the floor to the ceiling, but instead of regular wooden rungs, the entire thing was coated in flames.
That wasn’t the worst part.
There, on the back of the trapdoor, was a face—eyes, nose, a mouth, the whole image painted on the wooden panels. As I watched, the portrait did the unthinkable.
The face smiled at me.
Blood pounded in my ears as I slipped on my broom, ragged breaths loud against the crackle of flames. I couldn’t tell if the features were male or female; it was an androgynous sort of figure with eyes drawn in black and a mouth colored a brilliant shade of red. The expression in its eyes was eerily human, the smile surprisingly realistic.
As I started toward the trapdoor, the smiling face laughed, a loud, booming noise that pushed me back just in time. I looked up, my stomach sinking as the entire opening burst into flames.
I debated turning to leave when the face began to speak.
“Here you enter the Library of Greats,
Where many myths have stored their fates.
Prophecies and tales lie waiting here,
From hundreds and thousands of yesteryears.
To step within, answer the following rhyme,
And inside you’ll receive an hour of time.”
My heart pounded harder, but I stalled my broomstick and waited. My hands grew slick with sweat for every second that passed until finally, the riddle began.
“The Library of Greats is full of words,
Stories and whispers no longer heard.
One word is spelled incorrectly you see,
Tell me which one, and inside you shall be.”
I froze as the weight of the riddle sank onto my shoulders. “Always spelled incorrectly,” I said aloud. I looked up at the face painted on the back of the trapdoor. “Am I allowed to ask you questions?”
The face merely smiled, and I took that as a no.
“Then don’t mind me,” I said, continuing to mutter aloud as I attempted to digest the riddle. If I could solve it, that would give me an hour of time in the Library of Greats—more than enough time to open a window and fly out.
Groaning, I descended to the floor and paced up and down, broomstick in hand. “English is a difficult language,” I said unhelpfully. “Lots of people spell words wrong all the time.”
The face’s smile grew brighter.
“And words are never spelled like they sound.”
The fire around the edges of the trapdoor grew brighter, and I sensed my time to answer was running out.
“Wait, it’s always spelled incorrectly, so that means…everybody spells it the same—” I looked up, smiling as the answer hit me. “You are clever,” I said, wagging a finger at the smiling face. “I-N-C-O-R-R-E-C-T-L-Y. Incorrectly is always spelled…incorrectly.”
The smiling face bowed toward me. When the lids of his eyes blinked shut, the fire vanished completely. Giddy with glee, I hopped onto my broomstick and, without wasting a second, sailed up through the opening.
The trapdoor swung shut behind me, the face watching as I hesitated.
“One hour,” the painted face said cheerfully. “If you’re not out in an hour, this room—and everything in it—will burn.”
My fingers shook, but I nodded. Then I turned to face the wide expanse of room and sucked in a breath at the beauty before me.
If I’d thought the magical library downstairs was interesting, this blew away anything I could’ve ever dreamed. The room was cavernous, the ceilings ten times my height. Books were stacked in arrays from floor to ceiling, held together by sheer magic and charms.
As I watched, books flew through the air of their own accord, rearranging themselves across thousands of shelves. Other books flipped through their pages, turned upside down, and even breathed. Though I was the only soul in the room, I didn’t feel alone.
Here, the stories were alive.
One hour, I thought, glancing longingly at the shelves.
I turned my attention to the window perched high on the wall, and then gazed back at the books. It would be foolish of me to waste the opportunity to look through a few books while I was here. After all, I’d gotten inside fair and square.
I had one hour left—one hour to find the prophecy, one hour to decipher the Frost King’s plan, and one hour to make it out before everything went up in flames.
Chapter 19
The time passed in a blur. I tried to start the timer on my phone, but it didn’t work. No technology worked in this space.
Luckily, an old, ancient clock hung on the far wall and ticked with an ominous click. It matched the beat of my heart as I sailed through one row after the next.
Pointing my broom toward the deepest, darkest section of the cavernous chamber, I flew until a sign caught my eye. The word had been penned on a torn piece of parchment and flapped in the slight breeze from the flying books. Prophecies.
The books here moved, shifted, turned their pages, whispered unintelligible sounds. Physically, it was warmer here, and I remembered Millie’s words: When a prophecy is on the verge of coming true, the bindings of the book in which it’s written heats up. I was in the right place—I could feel it.
Reaching my hand out, I let my fingers brush against the spines. Like a heat map, I followed the warmth. I paused before the books that singed my fingers, too hot to touch. I watched as one book disappeared into a pile of ashes, hoping it wasn’t the book I needed.
I continued on until my skimming led me to one book so sizzling hot I yanked my hand away, a small blister bubbling from the briefest touch. I hissed in pain, then curled my broom back and hovered before the book in question.
There wasn’t a title on the spine. I’d have to open the cover. Bunching up my leather jacket, I muttered a quick spell to make it fireproof.
Then, using it like an oven mitt, I pulled the book from the shelf and let it flip open.
The book opened of its own accord, whipping through page after page, all of them blank, creating a balmy wind tunnel that blew my hair back from my face. When the pages finally slowed, there were a few simple paragraphs.
I began to read, casting nervous glances over my shoulder at the clock, all too aware that I had only five minutes remaining before this place would go up in flames. Turning back, I set to reading and memorizing the prophecy with the precious minutes that remained.
The King of the North shall bear three children,
Two will be heroes, the other a villain.
The first in line is the Prince of the North,
It’s from him the next King in the cycle comes forth.
The next is a daughter who rules with ice,
She shall pay the ultimate price.
Next is her twin who rules by fire,
When she rebels, the consequences are dire.
For many centuries, they live in peace,
But all good things will eventually cease.
The Storybook will bend and break,
With the twist in history the family will take.
When the Prince is finally led awry,
It’s from his hand, his father shall die.
He must be stopped, or he shall destroy,
The world as we know it, the hopes and joy.
His sisters will be offered an unlikely hand,
It is she who delivers the final demand.
And when the wrongful King refuses her cry,
His sisters must combine, and he shall die.
I reread the prophecy, memorized it, and then shelved the book back in its place before flinging the jacket over my shoulder. My mind reeled as I sped toward the window. Was this the end of the Frost King’s reign? Had his sister—the one who ruled with fire—returned to end her brother’s reign?
If so, the Fire Princess was back.
