Moving across the room, I take in the fire blazing in the hearth, the cushioned armchairs, and begin browsing the collection. There’s a decent mystery selection, as well as adventure novels. A man marooned on an island. A goddess who’s abducted into the underworld, poor thing.
The next book is small and slender, able to fit into the palm of my hand. An inscription marks the inside of the cover.
To my beloved Calais. May you always find your way.
Interesting. I place it back on the shelf and continue to browse.Gardening for Beginners. Herbal Remedies and Tinctures.I frown. These same titles rest on my bookshelf back home. And then I spot the spine of a book I’m quite familiar with.The Complete Guide to Elk Hunting.A faded red cover with gold lettering. I don’t feel entirely grounded as I slide the volume free and flip to the title page, taking in the small pencil marking in the top right corner. Four letters.Wren.
My mind goes blank. How is this possible? This book should be at Edgewood, tucked on the bookshelf near the fireplace, right where I left it. Unless the king has since returned to the Gray and… brought my books here?
The idea is so absurd I snort. The Frost King does not cross into the Gray except to choose his bride. There must be some other explanation for its presence. The citadel’s enchantments work in inexplicable ways, after all, with its doors leading to marvelous realms.
Book in hand, I settle into one of the armchairs near a window overlooking a garden. I’m so engrossed by the story that I don’t immediately notice the sound of the opening door, nor do I hear the approaching footsteps.
“Wife.”
I startle so hard the book whacks my nose. “Shit.” My head swivels toward the center of the library where Boreas stands, hands tucked into the pockets of his breeches. A violet tunic cascades down his front, slightly rumpled. No gloves today. “What are you doing here? And I told you, it’s Wren.”
He moves toward one of the shelves in my periphery. “I live here.”
Smart mouth. “Orla mentioned you weren’t feeling well again.” A continuing oddity for which I’ve found no explanation.
“I’ve since recovered.”
Right.
As the king glides a hand across the book spines, he says, “I was wondering when you would find this place. Orla mentioned you like reading.”
What else has she mentioned to him, I wonder? “I would have found it much faster had you volunteered to show me.” There I go again, flinging my responses as though they are sharpened knives. With some effort, I manage to tamp down my prickly nature. “I spotted my books among your collection.”
“Did you?” He doesn’t look at me.
My gaze narrows in suspicion. All right then. I decide to steer the conversation in a different direction. “Do you know where each of these doors leads to?”
“I would hope so,” he says, “considering I built this citadel, and everything in it.”
So he created the doors. All this time I thought they preceded his reign. “Why are there so many?”
He drops his eyes, turns away from the shelf. It feels like a self-conscious gesture. “Sometimes I desire to see other realms, places beyond the Deadlands.”
“Oh,” I say, because it is easier than saying,I understand.
“Do you like it?” At my look of confusion, he adds, “The library.”
Leaning down, I pick up my book, set it on my lap. “I do. My mother taught me and my sister how to read, but there were fewbooks in our house growing up.” What little money our parents had wasn’t spent on the written word. “Orla said you collect books from other lands.”
“Yes, when I can get away.” He selects a scroll bound with twine. “Ancient kingdoms, dead languages, the fringes of society. I like knowing their stories. I…” He speaks haltingly. “I want to understand where people come from and why they make the choices they do.” He returns the scroll, disappears down another row, and returns holding a tome the size of my head. “This is one of my favorites.” He sets it on the table beside my chair.
I quirk my brow at it. Whatever the title is, it’s written in a completely different language. “What is it?”
“The complete history of the sea privateers.”
“Pirates?” I settle back into the chair, smirking. “I would never have guessed you were interested in such things.”
His mouth twitches. “When you live forever, sometimes the only mystery left is knowledge yet to be acquired.” He wanders over to the window. I’m not sure where this library exists, but I’ve decided it’s my favorite room in the citadel, if only for the view. “Now you know something of my literary tastes, but I admit, I know nothing of yours.”
My stupid heart leaps at that. I mentally kick it in some forgotten corner and gesture to the book I hold. “This is one of my favorites. Would you like to hear a passage?”
He turns, hands clasped behind his back, and notes the slipcover, the outline of an elk stitched on the front. “A hunting manual?”
