Percival chuckled, rough as war, his eyes like dying flames. He flexed the hand that wasn’t holding the book, his veins standing against his fair skin. Though his arms were thin, they were bound with muscle, their strength evident in the orrery’s glassy lights. He canted his head at a minute angle, and as his intent gaze met Roy’s, Percival raised a hand and dragged his fingers through his own hair, his lean biceps bulging.
Roy watched the slow and determined trajectory of Percival’s fingers, the transformation of his hair from bristly to tousled. Roy stood still, the air stolen from his lungs. He thought of rumpled bedsheets, of midnight breezes and clandestine kisses. He thought of the days they’d passed one another, not a single word spoken or exchanged, and how many times after these incidents Roy had envisioned Percival huddled over his books, his lips curved into the same roguish smile that they were curved into now.
The air between them seemed alive, shuddering, like the air on a blazing summer’s day. He inhaled and tasted it on his tongue, and although his lungs felt swollen and hot, as though they’d taken in a vat of steam, he had not nearly reached his fill.
At the corner of his vision, Percival took another step forward. Even while Roy tried to retain a frightening lack of self-control, he knew too well he would look up and find himself staring at Percival, a young man so burdened with untold misery and rage it had become a weapon. But as Percival walked closer, Roy didn’t think he’d ever been Percival’s intended target. He was cross at times, yes, but he could simply be opinionated, afraid he wouldn’t be heard unless he shouted from the top of his lungs. That was not so with Roy, though, not at all. Percival could whisper and Roy would only lean in, eager and defiant of his rational mind.
We have no choice but to embrace it.
Had it been not their circumstances Percival was speaking about, butthis? Their mutual urge to be aware of the other’s every move, whether asleep or awake, working or resting? He was astounded by the implications, all of them too terrifying to acknowledge or to name, so he discarded them, let go of his bearings, and then looked up.
Percival crossed the distance between them. They were either a chasm or a hairbreadth apart; Roy could not discern the difference. But when Percival stopped before him, all Roy’s thoughts of proximity and distance were cast by the wayside. Percival was a storm, and Roy was caught in his eye. His coat, a green riot of brocade and velvet, brushed against Percival’s raggedy tunic. Percival inched closer, their stomachs nearly pressed flush together, and Roy fought to contain his sigh, yet when he exhaled, his breath still came out wavery and stilted, as if he were exerted, pushed to the brink.
Roy tilted his head to the side, and Percival complied to his tacit request, no matter that he was striding past the line he had only days ago forbidden them to cross. He leaned in and slowly exhaled, his hot breath rushing along Roy’s cheek. Roy immediately bunched his hands into fists and even fought the urge to scratch his own skin, initially discomforted by Percival’s nearness, but not long after, a delightful shiver ran through him. Percival laughed under his breath, too rough to be a chuckle, and tucked Roy’s hair behind his ear, exposing the column of his neck.
Was one of them leaning in or was the world tipping on its axis? Roy could not tell. His heart was pounding too loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t keep his eyes from fluttering shut, enclosing and drawing out every moment of this, whateverthismight be, within the darkness behind his lids. Percival dragged his finger from Roy’s neck to the shell of his ear. Roy ached to know what the next moment might hold and longed even more for its unexpectedness, its dark mystery.
And when Roy opened his eyes, Percival appeared just as spellbound, studiously watching each movement of his own fingers. A secret smile tugged at his lips, and if Roy was not so beguiled by the spell laid upon him, he might’ve divined Percival’s thoughts from his crooked mouth.
I can’t let you get in my way.
But there was only the palm now cupping his cheek, the closeness of their bodies, the arduous, and ultimately impossible, challenge to withdraw. Roy leaned into Percival’s warm skin, his face flushing beneath the contact. Percival dragged his thumb along the underside of Roy’s jaw, just above his pulse point. The loose sleeve of Percival’s tattered tunic hovered near Roy’s shoulder. Yet another layer dividing them, another reason why this ought to stop, to promptly cease before their deadline passed them by.
Roy stiffened; his mouth frozen into a thin, bloodless line. But if he tried to speak, he might rip away the curtains of Percival’s illusion. And though his heart was still pounding in frenzied abandon, Roy was still aware of who stood before him, of the man who strove, day after day, to outshine him, to manipulate him. Had their game not come to an end, he would have suspected thatthis—Percival’s palm on his cheek, their bodies a breath apart—was the next move on the game board.
But he wasn’t sure if that bothered him in this moment.
Percival ran his thumb over Roy’s jawline, then across to the divot between his nose and mouth. He quickly looked from Roy’s lips to his gaze, then back again.
Anticipation coiled tight in Roy’s stomach. He drew in a deep breath, the soupy heat of Percival’s skin filling his lungs like a cloud of fog. Percival moved his thumb down, stopping only as he pressed it against Roy’s mouth. Percival nodded at his thumb, at Roy’s lips, and it came over Roy, what Percival was offering him: He was holding the game piece in play, and now it was Roy’s choice whether to tip the scales in his favor or, for a moment, relinquish control to his opponent. He didn’t want to consider the consequences, but regardless, a series of progressively vivid thoughts cycled through his mind.
Roy would part his lips and Percival would slide his thumb into his mouth, gliding it along Roy’s tongue. Roy would tip his head back in exhilaration, but Percival would want nothing of it. He would want to claim his prize, to prolong his grasp of power. And so, he would take hold of Roy’s jaw with the side of his index finger, then pull him forward, their mouths only inches apart but steadily drawing closer—
Roy shoved Percival back, his hands briefly touching Percival’s midriff, then stumbled away. The absence of their proximity was as disorienting as awakening from a deep dream.
Unlike Roy, Percival appeared entirely unperturbed by what had just transpired. He clasped his hands behind his back with nonchalance, though Roy couldn’t make out whether it was affected. “You really ought to control your breathing, Dawnseve,” he said with a scoff. He nodded to the table where he’d deposited his research material. “Come, darling. Maybe my company might help you find some answers.” He walked toward his desk, rolling back his shoulders.
Befuddled, Roy looked after him. He had not been deceived; he knew that much. What had happened had not been a conjuring of his imagination, a mirage of his own fantasies, but a moment grounded in reality. And he’d found the courage, thediscipline, to extract himself from the test. But it was impossible not to feel that Percival still had a hold of him, that no matter how Roy looked at it, something was still in play. A battle, perhaps, between his heart and his instincts. But the two were so entangled, they were almost indistinguishable, and he couldn’t help but feel that some lonely, wanting part of him was at fault.
13
Roy declined Percival’s request to study withhim at his table, and instead they separately pored over their respective texts, but it didn’t stop Roy from gathering his own texts in his arms and sitting at the desk opposite Percival’s.
Thankfully, Percival didn’t argue; if anything, Roy could perceive a slight smirk on Percival’s beautiful lips—
No, Roy thought.I will not go down that road right now. I’ve already trod down that path, to nothing but frustration. In fact, I should get up and leave, get him out of my sight, while I still can.
Why would he leave, though? He wasn’t bowing to Percival’s every whim and hecertainlywasn’t being led by a leash to do Percival’s bidding. Roy was a scholar, too, and as far as he could tell, he was the only one to have actually discovered anything.
More, to go somewhere else wasn’t an option. Definitely not the Observatory, which he couldn’t quite convince himself to go back to anytime soon. No, Roy couldn’t put his finger on precisely what it was, but the sixth floor felt vital, like the linchpin to all that he’d uncovered thus far—and all they’d yet to uncover.
The ostensible importance of the sixth floor, however, did not discount its absurd texts, nor the maddening warren of ambiguities and dead ends therein. Self-styled “history books” concerning the exploitation of old-world magic misquoted one another, which led Roy on a hunt for references, only to end up with the same book in his hands he’d been studying for the past several hours. One tome, Gideon Argell’sThe Bandits of Sorcery, seemed at first to hold decent information and possibly some answers regarding the Old Ones, insofar as there were several diagrams of men, women, and those who identified as otherwise clad in dark armor, but he got halfway through the text before flipping to the author’s note (unwisely placed at theendof the book) and realizing it was a work of fiction.
This happened no less than fifteen times, but at least by perhaps the eighth book, he grew more aware of the regularity of these obstacles. The next time that he forced himself to take a break, return his previous stack of books to their respective locations, and then gather a new stack, he chose carefully. He glanced over historians’ interpretations, tables of contents, footnotes, epigraphs, authors’ and editors’ notes, and biographies; deciphered whether the content of the book was true to life or fictitious; then sat down and got back to work.
He understood, of course, that fiction was partly modeled after reality, but that only helped so much; it was crucial he be able to go directly to the source. If he wasted time disentangling truths from fabrications, that would, he feared, increase his workload. And he already had no way of knowing when this search would end.
After another six hours’ work, Roy lifted his head up from the book he’d been hunched over, a collection of expeditions recorded by a band of seafarers. He groaned, kneading out the knot in his left shoulder.
