It is all the affirmation needed. Rounding the counter, I stride toward the back stacks.
“Your Highness—”
I brush past him. Far from the central atrium, the shelves narrow, the air cools, the light dims. “Where are the documents? In here?” I try one of the doors. As soon as my palm grazes the brass handle, the metal grows icy to the touch. I snatch back my hand with a pained hiss.
“Your Highness,please.” The man slips between me and the door while attempting to push his glasses back up his sweaty nose. “I ask that you refrain from entering rooms without the king’s permission.”
I’m still attempting to process what just occurred. “What sorcery is this?” I demand, pointing at the door.
The head archivist opens his mouth. A small sound of distress squeaks out. “Sorcery? I don’t understand.”
“The door handle. It’s cold as ice.”
“What?”
“Touch it,” I press.
He hesitates, then grabs the brass handle firmly, confusion crimping his mouth. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but the door handle feels perfectly normal to me.”
How is that possible? Again, I reach for it, but the moment metal grazes skin, the handle grows frigid. A heartbeat later, the discomfort forces me to withdraw.
“All the doors are locked,” the man insists with evident apprehension. “They cannot be opened without King Halim’s permission. I would request it for you, but considering his illness—”
“Excuse me?” My gaze narrows. “What have you heard?”
He is unable to hold my stare for long. “I have heard only that he is ill and keeps to his rooms.”
Not even Father’s advisors are aware of his declining health. It is why he has called Amir back from his honeymoon sooner than expected. “How did you learn of this?”
“The palace attendants talk.” He swallows, pushes his glasses up his nose with a trembling hand. “I do not wish to lose my position, Your Highness.”
My head drops forward. How easy it would be to demand entrance. But this man is a citizen of Ishmah, and I, as its princess, am its emissary. My station comes with certain obligations that I can neither escape from, nor alter, nor discard.
“Apologies,” I whisper to the head archivist before departing the stacks, and the library, entirely. He need not worry that I will violate the king’s decree. Not while the library is occupied. I simply need to return at a time when there are none to witness my transgression.
Later, when the sky unfolds in panels of black silk, I light my lamp.
Beyond my bedroom window, stars fleck the horizon like tossed salt, bright and plentiful. Slipping a thin sleeping robe over my nightgown, I belt it at the waist and ease my door open, lamp held high over my head. A wash of orange light warms the hall. Empty, as I anticipated.
The quickest path to the library is via the east corridor. Unfortunately, that requires bypassing Father’s chambers, which I will not attempt. Thus, I find myself hurrying down the more obscure passages, tucking myself into shadowed nooks to avoid detection. The air is frigid, tinged with sweetly scented jasmine. I am a woman alone among the tall pillars of stone.
Two men guard the entrance into the library. Thankfully, they appear to be sleeping. Of course, at any other time this would be completely unacceptable, considering their job is to, well,guard, but I am not going to complain. Breath held, I tiptoe past them and ease open one of the doors. It emits a soft creak of sound, but the men do not wake. I slip inside with them none the wiser.
All is drenched in moonlight. The plush armchairs have been vacated. They sit as softened statues, basking in the pool of alabaster. A smoky odor lingers, the charred logs having cooled in the fireplace’s wide stony mouth.
Rounding the front counter, I proceed down the stacks housing the special collections. I do not bother searching the shelves. If material on the labyrinth is restricted, it will be placed under lock and key.
As I did earlier today, I attempt to open the door slotted between two of the shelving units. The brass handle burns the moment it brushes my skin.
I drop my hand in frustration. I don’t understand. Why can’t I open the door? And why did the handle feel perfectly normal to the head archivist?
To my left lies a separate passage, tapered, barren of shelving, with doors spaced at regular intervals along the wall. All seven possess brass knobs. When I try to open the first two, I find both locked, metal icy to the touch.
Deeper I venture. My slippers scuff the ground, wooden floors transitioning to cracked stone, ceiling slanting low. I try doors three, four, five. Locked. As I attempt the sixth door, something clicks behind me. I whirl, lifting the lamp toward the darkness. “Hello?” When a pulse of frosty air unfurls from the corridor’s depths, I swallow, retreating a step. “Notus?”
My voice echoes faintly. There is no response.
Calm yourself, I soothe. But my heartbeat has begun to lurch with a speed I cannot hope to tame. The corridor seems to squeeze in around me, stone walls crowding inward, and for a moment, I am certain the shadows change shape.
