Claren holds open a huge oak door, and gestures for us to enter.
As I follow the girls in, the sight takes my breath away.
Demons must do a lot of reading. Their castle library is bigger than Father’s ballroom! We’re stood upon a platform, overlooking the dizzyingly large hall. Shelves line the floor and walls, stretching as far as the eye can see, and upon them are hundreds and hundreds of multicoloured books.
You could spend an entire lifetime here and not read them all. Even twelve lifetimes wouldn’t come close.
Blossom chokes on a gasp while Eden hugs Pumpkin with her mouth wide.
“Tell me you have romance books here,” I gasp.
Claren shrugs. “Of course we do. I make sure we always get the new fiction releases.”
“I must be dreaming,” I laugh. There are pockets of armchairs and coffee tables scattered around the wooden floor. Desks with parchments and quills are lit up by floor lamps and wall sconces.
Maeve’s daughter drifts past us, down the stairs towards the nearest desk. Dipping a quill into ink, she writes something while we all move closer to watch her. Once finished, she holds it up to show us.
“What does ‘Tamryn’ mean?” Eden asks. It’s written on the page in scratchy letters.
“It’s her name.” Claren beams. “Tamryn is your name, right?” he asks her.
Tamryn nods with a pretty smile.
“That’s a lovely name,” says Blossom.
“Yes. Much nicer than Blossom.” I can’t help myself. She swats me on the arm, and I cackle.
Claren gestures to a chair for Tamryn and pulls up another beside her for himself. “Why don’t you start by telling us about your life?” he asks. “What was it like living in Lord Elheart’s palace?”
She blinks at him, then brings the quill to the paper again. But this time, her letters don’t make any sense. They’re long and sweeping.
“She’s drawing.” I step up to her side. It’s a good drawing. She draws herself painting onto an easel. There’s a smiling man seated on a tree stump beside her, who must be Elheart. In the background is the palace with trees, bushes, a swooping owl against fluffy clouds.
After a few minutes, she lowers the quill and holds up the drawing for Claren to see.
His brow creases. “Maeve isn’t in your drawing.”
Tamryn frowns, tapping her fingers on the parchment.
“Does this mean you were happy?” I ask. For some reason, I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask about her mother.
Tamryn shrugs, nodding once.
“Happy enough?” I clarify.
She nods more forcefully.
Claren scoots closer, passing her the quill again. “Your drawing is nice, Tamryn,” he speaks carefully. “But will you write for us? It’s easier for us to understand that way.”
Taking the quill, she tilts her head. But when she brings it back to the page she only writes one word above herself in the drawing,Tamryn.
We all stare at it for a moment, before I ask, “Tamryn, do you know how to write any words other than your name?”
She chews her lip, then shakes her head slowly.
“Dammit,” Claren sighs.
“But she understands us.” Blossom scowls at him. “Just ask her yes or no questions. She can still communicate.”
