From behind a leaning tower labeledHistorical Inaccuracies that Changed Everything, a voice rasped, “Hovering won’t get you a discount.”
An aging man unwound from the stacks—tall and gangly, draped in an oversized cardigan bagged at the elbows; his shirt bore the softened wear of long affection. Enormous spectacles magnified brown eyes into polished marbles, resting on an overambitious nose and large ears. Wisps of thinning hair had been combed dutifully across a shining crown.
“Branrir,” Thistle said, grinning. “Still muttering to your index cards in five languages?”
The man blinked at her, resembling a patient owl. “Still talking to plants more than people, I imagine?”
“You know plants are better company than most,” Thistle replied, stepping close to rest a fond hand on his shoulder. “I’ve brought friends. You already know Vesper.” She tipped her head toward the feline perched like an oversized bird on her shoulder. “And this is Mavromichaeli Bassiano.”
The corners of Branrir’s mouth lifted. “Ah, yes, the knight with a penchant for injury.”
Mav shot a glare at Thistle. “What’ve you said?”
“Nothing that wasn’t true,” she chuckled.
Then Branrir’s magnified eyes found me and held. More surprising than the intensity of his gaze was the recognition flaring within it.
“You’re awake,” he said.
I stilled, my spine straightening.What compelled him to phrase it so?“Yes,” I managed, the only answer that would come.
He took one unhurried step forward. “How long?”
I glanced at Thistle, then at Mav, uncertain if this was some veiled riddle.
Mav began, “We left Maelth just after dawn?—”
Branrir lifted a hand—slender, precise—without moving his eyes from mine. “You know that isn’t the question. How many days into the fourteen?”
The number struck like porcelain smashing on stone.
My mouth parted. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fourteen days,” he repeated, adjusting his spectacles. “That’s how long you remain awake, is it not?”
My throat tightened. “How do you know that?”
He clasped his hands loosely behind his back. “Because, in certain circles, Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia, you are infamous.”
At my name on a stranger’s tongue, my heart leaped into double time. If he knew my identity, what else might he reveal?
Mav stepped slightly in front of me, the gesture warmly protective. “How do you know her name?”
“In some libraries, you’re a ghost,” Branrir continued. “In others, a myth. But in the ones I trust most…” He paused, head tilting. “You’re a tragedy wrapped in a question.”
Breath deserted me.
“The woman who defied a prince,” he said. “Who chose her will over a throne and disappeared.” Reverence warmed his voice. “You’re a legend.”
The air thinned. My mouth went dry. Mav stood utterly still. Thistle’s lips parted without sound. The words lingered with the dust motes suspended in lamplight.
You’re a legend.
I had lived centuries believing myself forgotten. Now, thisbalding scholar regarded me as though I had been carved into myth.
“Wait,” Vesper’s voice cut through the tense quiet. “You actually know this woman?”
“Know of her,” Branrir said, dipping his chin, “though I never thought I’d meet her.” He inclined in a courteous half-bow. “Branrir Waller. An honor, milady.”
