“Eighteenth-Century Techniques for Conjuration…” I whisper to myself, reading the title. I shelve the next book. “Fundamentals of Standardized Sigils…” I continue down the aisle, scanning the spines before I find the right place for the next book. “Practical Uses in Applied Arcana…”
Since it’s my first day of work, I’m shelving books. I don’t mind. Of course, it was tedious, having to memorize an entire new cataloging system, one that still utilizes aged card stock smeared with ink from a century ago, but I quickly got used to it and soon settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Atticus, Dorian, and I used to spend countless hours together in the library when we were in school, tearing through books in a day, side by side at a table we claimed as our own in the back of the reading room. I’ve always felt at home in the library, so it was only natural that I would find work here. I’ve taken a position as an archivist in Sibylline’s Rosette Library. It’s not much of a job,but I can tell I’m going to like it. Being surrounded by words has always made me feel at peace, and it’s no different here. I like the calm of the silent stacks. The whispers of the patrons soothe me. There’s an obvious reverence in the air, a silence that’s reserved for worship. It is almost as if I were working in a temple dedicated to the written word, and that might not be too far off the mark. The Rosette was once a cathedral, and it’s one of the oldest buildings on campus. But in more recent years, they’ve converted the chapel into an archive for magical texts, one of the largest on the continent. It houses the school’s exhaustive collection of rare and magical books and scrolls—some secret, some powerful, some (I’ve only heard) too dangerous to leave the premises.
I glance around to see if anyone is watching.
The rain taps gently along the towering stained-glass windows that make up every wall, streaks of water cascading down across depictions of knights slaying fire-breathing dragons and golden-haired maidens leaning out of towers to gaze at their saviors. The candlelit chandeliers overhead warmly illuminate the atrium, pouring golden light upon thousands of rows of books, all of them meticulously categorized by the archivists. Whispers carry great distances in the open chamber, and footsteps echo around the great hall. I have a full view, back to front, of the library and occasionally catch glimpses of students and faculty as they move from one aisle to the next, disappearing behind the seemingly endless rows of oak bookcases. While no one watches, I scribble a letter to my parents.
Paris is gorgeous this time of year. Vivienne says hi! We took a walk along the Seine and ate lunch at La Terrasse. We’ll be going to Versailles tomorrow. I can’t wait.
My pen hovers over the page as I think about what to say next. I can’t. So I go back to shelving books. I’m lying to my parents, ruining the mood and making the atmosphere less romantic. The ceiling, crisscrossed with gold and blue arches, depicts a starry night, but it hangs darkly overhead, mirroring the sky. And my heart.
After I was rejected by Sibylline, I told my parents about our plans to find work here instead. They thought it was a bad idea. They ranted and criticized. They lectured me endlessly. They wanted me to move on, wanted me to look at going to other schools, maybe to one of the lesser magical universities.What’s wrong with State Magic,they’d asked,or even the local magical trade schools?But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I know they love me, but they’ve never really understood me. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m magical and they’re not, but I’ve always felt different from them. I didn’t want to fight, so I told them I was taking a gap year and staying with my cousin Vivienne in Paris, unplugging from my normal life as I figured out what I wanted to do next. No phone, no internet, total digital detox, just Europe and a wayward spirit. They were more than thrilled that I was letting Sibylline go. Vivienne agreed to the scheme without question. Lying buys me time. I know I can’t keep it up permanently—my parents will have to find out eventually—but I’ll deal with it when the time comes.
I shelve three more books. “Encyclopedia of Dream Symbology…Inventions of the Arcane World…Guide to Arithmancy.” I read the titles aloud as I slot them into place, then I flip that last one open and find pages full of mathematical equations. This is something Atticus would love.
“Ahem.”An elderly archivist stares at me from the far end of the aisle, offering me a stern look over half-moon spectacles.
I snap the book closed and place it back on the shelf, smiling apologetically.
She disappears down the aisle, her glare disapproving. I’m not allowed to read while on the job, and I’ve already been told that only the students and teachers are permitted to scan these books, but I can’t help it. I’m like a child in a candy shop. With the archivist gone, I scribble the last lines of the letter.
I’m having so much fun here, but I miss you both already.
xoxo Raven
I read, and then reread what I’ve written. At least that last part is true. I am having fun at Sibylline so far. Still, it feels odd lying to them. I fold the paper into thirds and stuff it into an envelope with my parents’ address on it. Then I place it into another envelope with my cousin Vivienne’s address in Paris so she can mail it for me, and I seal it shut with wax.
With my letter in hand, I go to the mailbox in the lobby and give it a kiss before slipping it into the mail slot. When I look inside the box, the letter is already gone, whisked away on the winds of magic to its destination. It’s out of my hands now, and I finally take a breath.
When I come back to the circulation desk, a tall stack of books waits for me on the counter. I search the spines for titles but find only worn fabric covered in stains that blot out the titles. Opening one of them up, I find no half-title page or author listed, but there is elaborate handwriting, made in what looks to have been a quill and ink, on pages made of vellum. The book smells of mold and rot, and it makes my nose wrinkle.
I’m about to ask my coworker on the opposite side of thecirculation desk what I should do, but I stop myself. I came to Sibylline to learn, didn’t I? The knowledge within them is strictly controlled by the school, but there’s no harm in taking a peek, right?
I leaf through the text. The book isn’t written in English; it’s in Welsh. But as my eyes scan the page, shapes become letters, and letters become words, and words become language. Like water rippling on the surface of a pond, the characters on the page shift, and before I know it, I understand Welsh. For me, it’s as natural as breathing.
This is a book of ancient incantations.
Conjurations, divinations, evocations, even necromancy—an entire manuscript filled with everything one needs to know to perform magic. My mind races. This is exactly the kind of thing that the Oneiric Society would love.
“What are you doing?”
A voice startles me, and I jerk my head up.
My deskmate, Pippa, another junior archivist and a proper first-year Sibylline student, looks at me, her brow knitted with intrigue. She’s my age, with a smattering of freckles on her nose, silky blond hair, and a rosy complexion. Her well-manicured nails curl over the back of her chair when she’s turned to me, the glossy red catching the light like blood. When we were first introduced, I recognized her instantly. She’s the daughter of a famous Sibylline alumnus—a wizard who uses divination to expand his hedge fund.
Pippa is one of the few people who was accepted to Sibylline this year. Unlike me, she’s working here as part of a student employment program. I don’t think she’s doing it for the money, though.
I scramble for a reasonable explanation. It’s no use pretendingI wasn’t reading, so I might as well tell the truth. “I can’t figure out how to catalog these,” I say. “There’s no identifying information.”
Pippa’s gaze flicks to the books, then back to me. “The archive is closing soon,” she says.
“I know. I just want to get these done.”
“Fine,” she says. “What does it say?”
