Contained within was a photograph.
It was a Polaroid taken with an instant camera of an elderly man rugged up in a dark green woolen jersey and a slouchy hat. He sat on a park bench in front of a metal table with his arms folded while he studied a chessboard, the pieces in mid-game. Wrinkles heavily lined his weathered gray features. His expression was serious.
The back of the Polaroid contained my latest letter.
This is Matthew. He’s retired now, but he used to be a bookkeeper for a custom cabinetry business. He comes down to the gardens at the lake almost every afternoon to play chess with anyone he can convince to spare him an hour of game time. Often it’s tourists he ensnares. He’s a real stickler for the rules. If you touch a piece, not meaning to move it or take it, declare your intent with ‘adjust.’ That’s all I fucking heard. Adjust, adjust, adjust. Because he likes the pieces to sit perfectly on the board.
My grin was broad. Matthew looked intense but sweet. I could imagine him strolling up to a couple admiring the gardens and fountains at the lakeside, convincing them to play a game. I didn’t compete in chess very often, only the odd match with my father over the years. And at the thought of him, of all those times we sat across the black-and-white checkered board from one another, pain pierced my heart. I rubbed the pang from my chest, vowing that I’d see my father once more, and I’d go down to Ascendria’s lake to find Matthew and offer him a game.
I slumped against my fluffy pillow, tucking the Polaroid back into the envelope.
Only two other people knew of these letters—my sister, and the person who wrote them, whoever he was. I’d always assumed it was a guy from the way they wrote. He had nice, neat handwriting, and was careful with his penmanship.
There wasn’t anything else inside, no secret communication from Evvie, but I didn’t need it. Thisletterwas the message. My sister purposely gave it to him, and this was the message from her to me: to trust Dustin Reed.
Evvie had found a way to get a spy into the Crowther’s fortress.
Which was astonishing. I couldn’t believe she’d pulled this off. There was only one slight kink in her plan. Jett—the asshole—had sent Dustin off on a random, stupid mission to fetch absinthe from the Woodworm Driads, and I wouldn’t see him for a few more days. I couldn’t ask how Evvie and my family were or have him pass on a message to them.
I absentmindedly tapped the edge of the envelope against the book, thinking of the man I had met in the library. Dustin had been a little clumsy and overly eager and utterly taken aback when he first encountered me. Now I knew why. He hadn’t expected to run into me so soon. Perhaps he thought I would be locked away in the dungeon below the Keep, not wandering around unattended as if I belonged there.
He was handsome, too. Different from Graysen, shorter and leaner, with brown hair and eyes and a neat, bristly beard. I liked his smile. He seemed to beam with his entire face. And he loved libraries, which was a love we both shared.
Sage suddenly pounced onto the bed. The mattress dipped and then bounced under his immense weight as he jumped about, and the abrupt motion sent the book soaring off my lap to fall flat on the floor. The leaves flapped back and forth, finally settling down and splayed open.
“Sage,” I growled without any real menace. My wraith-wolf ignored me, approaching to nudge his moist nose into the side of my face, his huffing breath washing across my skin as he pushed in for a pet. I rubbed behind his ears and under his chin, the bed thumping as he eagerly wagged his tail. Satisfied, Sage stretched out beside me, loosened a contented, sleepy huff.
Raising a hand, I arched my neck and scratched at an itchy spot beneath the irritating collar before leaning over the side to pick up the fallen book. My sight caught on the heading written across the opened page,Tears of the Broken Hearted,as I dragged it back up and propped it on my lap.
I hadn’t bothered looking at the old tome earlier because the envelope inside had enthralled me.
It was huge and smelled of dust and ancient parchment and wonder. Gilding adorned the pages, and a few creases from dog-ears prevented them from lying perfectly flat. My fingertips tripped down the book’s spine, and it felt a little damaged, as if it had been broken somewhere along the centuries.
Keeping my forefinger wedged on the open page, I flicked through the earlier leaves.
The first half was mostly small, otherworldly creatures. Interesting, but of no consequence. But partway through, the writer changed from someone with flourishing penmanship to another author with much more legible handwriting. Neat and precise. Their later entries detailed strange things, rare findings.
I was about to read about theTears of the Broken Hearted,but something on the opposite page captured my attention.
It was headed:Zrenyth’s Mites.
The author had written in their neat penmanship with ink and quill—Zrenyth’s Mites: Tiny, black, otherworldly creatures with long life. Almost invisible to the human eye. The mites have five life cycles. From egg to larva, with two adolescent cycles before reaching adulthood. The mites feed off magicthreaded through inanimate objects, specifically magic hailing from our God, Zrenyth.
I cocked my head to the side, my hair sliding over my shoulder while I pondered the terminanimate objects.
Oh my gods…
My spine locked straight, and the breath caught in my throat.
Zrenyth had forged the rope collaring my neck.
My gaze shot back to the page, scanning it so rapidly I wasn’t taking it all in properly. My mind was working overtime, my thoughts scattering in different directions like wind blustering through a pile of curled, rusty leaves.
I forced myself to slow down and start at the very beginning to re-read the notes detailing Zrenyth’s mites.
As I took it all in, exhilaration burst through me. A shriek almost erupted from my throat, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop it.
Dustin must have purposelygiven me this book.
