Vivienne gave a short, breathy chuckle. "It sounds like you visited the fiction section."
Lewis rolled his eyes, "Are you going to listen to my theories or just sit there all judgy?"
She mimed locking her lips, tossed the imaginary key over her shoulder, and sat at the dining table, crossing one leg over the other.
Lewis reached into the tote, pulled out the first of many books, and flipped to an earmarked page. "The King said Velorien, god of justice and balance, cast a bloodline curse so Fendwyr couldn’t have children." He turned the book toward her. "Look at this."
Vivienne scanned the page, her smirk faltering.
"In the last thirty years, the birth rate in Fendwyr has plummeted. The replacement rate used to be an average of three children per family. Within the first decade of that time period, that number dropped to an average of less than one child per family."
He flipped to another page, the paper whispering between his fingers. "Last year, only sixteen births were recorded?—"
"In Vantner?" she interrupted, her voice more impatient than she intended.
"No," he said, holding her gaze. "Inallof Fendwyr."
Her skin prickled, her intuition sending a warning.
"And," Lewis continued, rummaging through the bag for another book, his excitement tinged with something more serious, more urgent. "Of those sixteen births, twelve of the mothers crossed the Fendwyrian borderafterthey’d conceived."
Vivienne gripped the edge of the table. "What about the other four?"
Lewis exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I have no idea. Curses must not be an exact science."
She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. "So, we have fewer babies being born. That still doesn’t prove we’re cursed."
Lewis wagged a finger, his golden-brown eyes gleaming. "Ah, but there’s more."
From the depths of the tote, he pulled out something distinctly different from the rest. A ledger. Not a book, this was an official record. Vivienne took a nervous swallow, her throat visibly bobbing.
"That’s not from the library," she muttered, glancing between Lewis and the aged, red-bound tome.
"It’s the least the Chancellor can do for us at this point," Lewis said, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "I’ll return it before he notices it’s missing."
He cracked open the stiff binding, the leather creaking in protest, and slid the ledger across the table. "Read down this page and tell me these are normal Crown transactions."
Vivienne skated her fingertips down the list, murmuring as she read: "Midwife, Chemist, Herbalist, Priest… these all seem normal to me."
"Keep going," Lewis urged.
"Cleric, Alchemist, Monk, Astrologist," her voice grew quieter, her pulse louder. "Shaman, Druid, Occultist, Fae Consultant, Rune Master..." She stilled, her breath catching.
"Necromancer?" she whispered, shock spilling through her widened eyes.
Lewis planted both hands on the ledger, his expression serious, intense.
"If the curse isn’t real, then why in the everdark would King Berius waste a fortune hiring this circus of weirdos, witches, and—" he tapped the page, "gods damnednecromancers?"
Vivienne's stomach twisted into knots. Although saying it made her nauseous, she managed, "It’s possible the King is infertile and refuses to acknowledge it."
Lewis dragged a hand through his hair, considering. "Maybe, but that still wouldn’t explain the kingdom-wide collapse in birth rates."
Vivienne looked up and to the side, scouring the archives of her studies. She tilted her head, teeth pressing into the soft flesh of her cheek.It’s impossible. Isn’t it? There had to be something else. Something all those so-called specialists failed to uncover.
She leaned forward, fingers flipping through the brittle pages of the ledger, Lewis hovering at her shoulder. The entries stretched on, row after meticulous row of transactions between the King and an assortment of mystics, scholars, and self-proclaimed experts. Then her gaze snagged on a familiar name, not on a single entry, but filling the rest of the page.
Antiquary. Her held breath burned in her lungs. Banner, William. Banner, Liana. Vivienne’s pulse kicked, stumbling over itself.
