“Just like your mother did,” he spat, then he rounded on Mamá. “Youand your daughter are nothing to me,” Papá said quietly, with no trace of Mr. Sterling’s English accent. “I will kill her first, Lourdes, and while I’m the one pulling the trigger, her death is your fault, and no one else’s. I hope your double life was worth it.”
Papá shifted his stance, took aim. He stood not three feet away from me. His bullet would rip my heart in two. Behind him, in the distance, Whit and three of Papá’s men were in a shooting match, ducking behind fallen columns, cursing loudly at each other. I wished I could have told Whit how much I loved him. That I forgave him for everything.
Whit fired another shot with his rifle, and one of the men went flying backward, something small falling from his hand.
“Shit!” Whit roared, snapping his head in my direction. “INE—”
BOOM.
My ears rang fully as I woke, disorientated, my cheek pressed to the wooden floor. Smoke billowed, wafting into my nose. I tasted smoke in my mouth. The sound of thunderous crashing echoed in the room.
I blinked, my vision slowly coming into focus. It took me several tries to stand, my limbs sore from my fall. My clothes were in tatters, hanging in long strips and burned off in some sections. Around me, the walls of the library shook in anger. And on my next inhale, the room quieted, the smoke disappeared, the columns were standing upright, lavishly painted in green and gold and fiery red. The arched entrances leading to various rooms were intact, the carvings detailed and beautiful.
I gasped, sure I was dreaming, knocked unconscious from the blast.
A slender hooded figure appeared in one of the doorways carrying a roll of parchment in her left hand. I’d seen her before, many times, and I realized where I stood.
I was in Cleopatra’s memory.
She strode forward, pausing in front of each arched entryway, all painted and tiled in an array of glittering colors. I took a step, and then another, until I was close behind her. She walked farther into the library until she came to a room with another arched entryway. Like the others,writing in Greek was carved into the stone. If my father were with me, he’d translate what the words said. But I could only guess.
Cleopatra looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes passing through me as if I were a ghost. I supposed that I was. I’d been haunting her for months.
Then she pressed her fingers into different parts of the arch: First, a blue tile, veined in gold. The image of a serpent came next, followed by a press of a ruby-red tile. Then she carefully went to the other side and removed a tile that had a painting of Cerberus on it.
She was showing me the passage to the inner sanctum of the library.
Cleopatra slipped something off her finger, and with a start, I recognized it and stared down at my own hand.
It was the golden ring.
Cleopatra placed it in the space where the tile had been, fitting it perfectly on a raised circle. The space between the arch shimmered gold for half a second before returning to its usual ordinary state. Cleopatra slipped inside with me at her heels.
The room had high ceilings but was narrow. I could touch either side with my fingertips. The walls were divided into square-shaped cubbies, each packed with tightly bound rolls of parchment. In this space alone, there might have been thousands. Cleopatra brushed her index finger along the carved inscription on each partition, whispering several names I knew from my studies of great historical figures: Alexander the Great, Cicero, Archimedes, Thucydides, and Aristotle.
I gasped at the rolls, wishing I could pull each one out to read. But of course, I’d never be able to. So I forced myself to follow after Cleopatra, ignoring the nearly overwhelming urge to stand in place, just so I could marvel at this library, the most wondrous I’d ever known or seen.
Cleopatra knelt in front of a cubby, muttering under her breath, “Cleopatra.”
This must have been her ancestor, the alchemist, a renowned Spellcaster. Much like the woman before me. She slipped her roll (the Chrysopoeia—ithadto be) inside the cubby. Then she stood, turning to face me inadvertently.
I’d never seen her this close up. Dark eyes gleamed with intelligence.Her skin was dewy with youth, rubbed in essential oils, her hair tucked under her hood, a few tendrils grazing high cheekbones. The curve of her mouth was steeped in determination and grit.
A woman beyond her time.
If only she knew of the legacy she’d leave behind.
Would it make her cry, to be reduced to a seductress of men? A temptress whose victories were diminished and forgotten? Part of me wondered if she would even care. This woman had a city to save, a throne to maintain, a name that had to endure the ravages of time.
She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and swept out of the room, using an exit on the opposite side of the arched entryway.
“Inez!” Whit yelled into my face. “Can you hear me?”
He shook me hard, and I coughed, the memory fading to the edges of my mind. I was back in the destroyed library, back in the fire and curls of smoke thickening the air.
“Yes,” I managed, coughing again.
“We have to go,” he said, snatching my hand. “Now.”
