I stride to my room, thankful the boys don’t seem to be around. I grab a cloak and stuff my feet in some boots and make my way back to the front door. I truly expect to run into one of them at some point. If I do, I’m sure they’ll try to stop me, but none of them show themselves, and soon I’m outside.
As I approach the street, I pause as two carriages rush past, the wind of their movement toying with tendrils of my hair and tossing them into my face. I pause for a moment. Now that I’m outside, I can think more clearly, but without anger driving me, I’m suddenly stuck in indecision.
Finally, I decide to go to the only place I know how to get to on foot and head towards the small book shop I visited with Lent. I retrace my steps carefully. Unfortunately, a map of the city doesn’t roll itself out for me in my head.
“Of all the things that would be useful,” I grumble out loud to myself.
I stick carefully to the walking path on the side of the streets so I don’t get flattened by one of the fast-moving carriages. Thankfully, before much time has passed, I arrive at the front of the bookshop.
As I enter the small shop, a bell chimes above my head. The musty smell of books surrounds me, and I enter the maze of bookshelves, looking for the counter and shop owner. I wind through the books, titles, and spines catching my attention as I walk. Without thinking, I pull a couple off the shelf and, tucking them under my arm, bring them with me.
Eventually, I locate the shopkeeper at the center of the store and lay my books down on the counter.
He looks at the books. Idly, I notice that he doesn’t seem to see the wings of light. “Interesting choices there, young one,” he says. “Do I remember you?”
“I was here a few days ago,” I say. Then, without a pause, I listen to the strange instinct driving me and ask, “Where do you keep the books on angels?”
I catch his eyes widening momentarily before his face resumes its impassivity. Then, without further comment, he gestures at me to follow as he heads into the maze behind the counter. I stay close behind him, careful not to trip on the piles of books on the floor. It seems to be overflow storage for the countless books in this place. Eventually, the narrow pathways open up into a small room with walls lined with bookshelves.
“This is the section you’re looking for,” the little man gestures. I see that above the shelf is a sign that identifies this as theHistorysection.
“Anything in particular I can help you find?”
I decline his help, again driven by something I don’t quite understand. He leaves with a slight shake of his head.
Left to locate something I don’t know how to look for, I begin at the bottom shelf on the left. I scan the spines of the books, reading titles in languages that mostly seem to be familiar. There are many books on historical events and the government. It’s not until I get to the middle of the sixth or seventh bookshelf that I find something.
This book is unassuming, grey, and small with black letters on the spine that spellAli D’Angelo. I remove the book and flip through the pages. There are many drawings and illustrations, most of which make little to no sense to me. However, toward the back of the book, I see drawings of the wings I’m familiar with. Those same wings that emerge from my shoulders when I look at myself in a mirror.
There are words beneath the drawings, but I don’t understand their meaning. The strange instincts and map in my brain don’t seem to understand either at this moment. Despite that, I know I need it, so I close the book and take it back to the counter along with one other history book that stood out.
Without looking at me, the tiny shopkeeper pulls out the other books I left, and I add these two books to the top of the pile. He takes them and tucks the books into a small canvas bag.
Turning to me, he says, “That will be twenty-three coppers.”
“Please put it on The Boys’ tab,” I say with a confidence I do not feel.
His eyes widen further and stay that way. “This is highly unusual. I really need their approval, miss.”
“You’re welcome to get it.”
He stares at me and then, as though realizing that I mean he can go check with them himself, he says, “Ok, alright, I mean if they have an issue with it they can take it up with you?”
“That will suffice,” I say firmly.
He goes to a drawer in the back to make a note. With that recorded, he asks, “Anything else?”
I shake my head, and he wishes me a good day. Thus dismissed, I leave the shop and head back to the mansion.
When I get back, I kick off my boots and head straight to the office for the other book that my instincts are suddenly drawing me to. I find it easily on the same shelf where I’d subconsciously seen it previously. I tuck it into the canvas bag with the others and head back to my room.
As I leave the office, I catch something at the edge of my vision. Turning towards the front door I see movement through the window set in the door. As I go to investigate, my hand wrapped around the handle of the bag, ready to use it as a weapon if needed, the door opens, and Malam steps through it.
We freeze simultaneously, eyeing each other. I see him note the bag in my hand and relax it to my side.
“What are you doing, Chaosta?” he asks. His voice is guttural and dangerous, but no more than usual.
Those black shadow wings stand out from his shoulders. As I see them, I think of my own wings of light. At that moment, he tenses as he looks past my face to either side of my shoulders.Then, with a growl, he grabs my arm and pulls me into the office. He drags me into the middle of the room roughly, towering over me, his grip bruising on my arm.
