A curtsy moved through me out of pure habit.
Branrir vanished into the labyrinth of shelves. “Wait there,” he called, voice muffled. “I’ve something to show you.”
I exchanged a glance with Mav. He was as perplexed as I was. The tether hummed between us, restless. Branrir returned carrying a thick leather-bound volume, its spine cracked, corners furred by age. He blew dust from its gilded cover and laid it gingerly upon the counter.
“Magical Ethics and Political Enchantments of the Second Age,” he said, stroking the cover as one might a pet. “Out of print. Banned in most kingdoms. This copy survived the royal library fire in Avilogne.”
Mav arched a brow. “You keep banned books?”
“Only the worthwhile ones,” Branrir said, brightness peeking through.
He paged through with careful fingers, murmuring until he found a faded ribbon. “Here.”
I stepped closer, fingertips grazing the counter’s rough edge. The page was wrought with surprising text. The letters appeared far too neat to have been handwritten. Centered on the page was a hand-inked illustration. And there, rendered in sepia strokes, was my face. Not perfect, but near enough to bear an unmistakable resemblance. My hair. My mouth. The shape of my eyes. Ceremonial robes. An unsmiling expression. Beneath, in old Avandric:The Sleeping Twilight: A Case of Sovereign Magic and Refusal.
My hands curled before I knew they had.
“Saints,” Thistle breathed, eyes lifting to mine, wide with understanding. “You’re a Twilight?”
Terror stumbled through my chest; heat pricked my eyes. Here it was—the moment I had feared all my life. The truth, bared.
Mav angled his body between us, in a kind but useless show of gallantry. “It’s not what it looks like. She’s not dangerous, she just?—”
A laugh bubbled out of Thistle, a wonderfully odd cackle. “Well, no wonder you didn’t want to say anything.”
“You are not angry that we kept the truth from you?” I asked, confusion warring with fierce relief.
“We all have secrets, dear. Not all are mine to keep,” she said, reaching to squeeze my hand.
A tear rolled down my cheek unbidden. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Branrir sucked a breath through his teeth. “Ah. My mistake. I didn’t realize the entire party wasn’t informed. My apologies, milady.”
I managed a small, acknowledging shake of my head.
“It’s nice to watch someone other than Bassiano put his foot in his mouth,” Vesper purred.
Mav rolled his eyes at the cat and leaned toward the page. “So, this is?—”
“Yes,” Branrir said softly. “The woman who refused a throne and was punished with a bed of silence. Lady Quinnève Liogenoriggia.”
Beneath the illustration, the text revealed details I myself had not known: the names of the mages who stood witness at the binding; theories tying my awakenings to a pre-coded fourteen-day cycle; speculation that the spell braided inheritance tethering with chronal stasis—magic so sophisticated it might be irreversible. I felt reduced to ink and margin. Not a woman, but awarning.
Branrir closed the book with a gentle thud. “You’ve become a symbol,” he said. “Whether you asked for it or not.”
“I assure you, I did not.” My fingers worried at my skirts, needing somewhere to direct my nerves. “It was not a throne I refused. I had no wish to be entered into a royal ledger of heir-bearers.” I folded my arms tight across my chest. “I was the only Twilight in the kingdom. They wanted my blood and my abilities at their disposal.”
They regarded me now not with pity and awe, but with understanding. Some part of me would have preferred the former.
Mav’s forehead creased as he looked to Branrir. “How’d you know to go looking for this?”
“I’m a Hindsight. I remember everything I’ve ever read. Every ledger, journal, scrap of magical theory. And she—” Branrir tipped his head at me, “happens to be one of the most fascinating unsolved mysteries I’ve encountered. I have so many questions to?—”
“She’s not some topic for academic study,” Mav spat, muscles tensing. “She’s a real person who’s stuck in this mess because of some asshole. So can you help us, or not?”
Heat flashed in my chest at his defense.
“I’m not sure.” Branrir adjusted his spectacles. “According to the texts, the spell is a dyad.”
