I spin around, realizing where I’ve run to in the library.
It’s the same area Graylen led me to when I was here for the matching. Thesameplace I needed to search to find the dagger.
I used to brush these things off as coincidences, but in this realm—with Moros slinking around and Vidaris up to goddess knows what—there isn’t a chance this isjust a coincidence.
“We’re about to walk into a trap,” I growl to Adrian. “Stay close.”
Adrian lets out a small squeak behind me. I feel him press closer. “Maybe we should wait on Graylen?—”
The soft cry from a moment ago grows into a loud sob.
“No,” I toss over my shoulder as I feel along the wall. “He should be here soon.”
I move along the bookcase until it sounds like Opal’s softpleas are coming from right behind it. With my eyes closed and palms pressed against the spines of old books, I feel for any flicker of magic around me.
Almost instantly, I recognize a sensation of something not belonging beneath my hands—a tingling that itches against my skin.
Adrian gasps beside me, and before I open my eyes, I already know what will be waiting there.
“How did you do that?” Adrian whispers in awe.
I open my eyes to find a door before me, one that certainly wasn’t there before.
Glancing over my shoulder, I whisper, “Stay here while I check on Opal. I don’t want to scare her.” I spin back toward the bookshelf and pluck the nearest book off the shelf. Shoving it into Adrian’s hands, I add, “Drop this on the floor if you see someone coming.”
It’s the best plan I can come up with while my brain is screaming at me to get into that room. What is Opal doing in there?Howdid she get in there?
Without waiting for a response, I leave Adrian standing outside the door—cracking it enough that if someone walks in, they won’t see me.
Unlike the library, there’s a dim, shimmering light cast over the room. A tall taper candle is lit in the center of a two-chair table, three small sconces on the wall burning enough to illuminate the perimeter.
For a moment, all I see is an empty, old room. It’s as dusty as ever, gold-foiled spines shimmering on cramped bookcases.
“Opal,” I whisper, my voice feeling too loud in the small space.
I step around the table, moving to the narrow area between it and the bookcase on the far wall.
My heart freezes.
Opal is crumpled into a heap on the stone floor, her faceburied in her hands and her knees pulled to her chest in a fetal position.
“Opal?” I whisper gently.
She doesn’t move, just continues to softly weep into her palms.
I slowly crouch down beside her and rest my hand on her shoulder, afraid to startle her. But still, she doesn’t stir—doesn’t seem to notice I’m touching her.
I shake her and repeat, louder, “Opal.”
Nothing.
Memories of finding Linnick dead in the servants’ quarters flash into my mind, causing my pulse to thunder in my temples.
Opal is still breathing—still crying.
“This isn’t like Linnick,” I whisper to myself, steeling my spine as I shake her again.
She rolls over from the force of my hands, not of her own accord, and my breath catches.
