Wait. No. Those are actual footsteps.
Shit.
I dash to the right and take a sharp turn, pressing my back against the side of the shelf. A second later, I hear someone in the next aisle over walking with slow, sweeping steps.
Time to go.
Clutching my skirts with both hands, I lift the hem up completely, my ribbons coiling beneath my coat. I’m too nervous to even breathe, but I tip toe away past the shelves, cringing every time my shoes scrape too loudly against the stone floor.
I can’t go back the way I came, not with that person so close. So I put as much distance between us as I can as I navigate through the cryptic room.
When I see more light ahead, I aim for it, hoping that it will lead to another way out. I cut down an aisle of shelves, and when I come out on the other side, I find tables with books and scrolls laid out and lanterns burning. But my eyes go right past them to the door directly ahead.
Thank Divine.
I rush forward, except in my hurry, I fail to notice the hunched over figure sitting at one of the tables, quill in hand. His head whips up just as I pass him, and the movement makes me jolt in surprise. “Oh, shit,” I curse in alarm. “Sorry.”
The old robed man is on his feet in an instant, his chair screeching against the floor as he pushes up. “Who let you in here? You don’t have permission to be here!” he seethes.
“Sorry,” I say again, backing up with my hands held in front of me. “I, um, I wanted to make an appointment to visit the library,” I say lamely.
The man’s deep set eyes sweep over me with narrowed contempt. “I know who you are.”
“Right,” I say, not at all interested to hear an eighty-year-old man call me a gilded whore. “So...an appointment?”
“No.”
I blink at him. Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.
“No?” I ask.
“Nobles are allowed to make appointments,” he informs me, his tone as stiff as his straw-colored hair. “All others are not welcome inside the royal library. Since you are clearly neither noble nor royal, you are not permitted entry.”
“But—”
“We have scrolls in here that date back to dark years. We have books written by the first kings. I have personally been transcribing an account of Saint Bosef during the Poppy Plague,” he informs me, chest puffed up with importance. “Now, this may come as a shock to you, but despite your nickname, this library is far more precious than you are,” he says scathingly. “So kindly remove yourself from my presence and do not think of entering again, because you are not welcome here. Return yourself to the saddle wing where you belong.”
I stare, stunned and still. I never imagined a scribe could make me feel as inferior and undeserving as a speck of dust.
His gaze drops to my coat, and instantly, the blood drains from my face. The stolen book in my pocket seems to grow heavier, tapping against my heart.
Is there an outline clearly visible? I don’t dare look down, but when he raises a hand and points at me with an ink-stained finger, my stomach falls right through my feet. I’m not even allowed to stand in the library. What’s going to happen to me for trying to steal a forbidden book?
“Do I need to call the guards to remove you?”
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s not yelling “thief” or demanding I turn out my pockets. “I...What?”
His finger shifts to the side, pointing to the door behind me. “Are you daft? I said, do I need to call the guards, or are you capable of removing yourself?”
“No, no. I’ll leave,
” I hastily reply.
I spin around to get the hell out as quickly as I can, yanking open the heavy door. I slip out of it as soon as the space is big enough for me to fit through. The door heaves shut with a thud behind me, and I lean back against it, hand over my chest to quell my racing heart.
I’ve met a lot of unpleasant people in my life, but that scribe was an ass.
With a shake of my head, I let out a breath. Beneath my fingertips, I feel the hard corners of the book like a badge of secrecy digging into my skin. I don’t have any idea what’s in it, but it feels furtive. As if the pages are whispers, and I’m leaning in to hear its secrets.