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“These are old enough that the authors’ names have mostly been lost to time. Though some also chose to remain anonymous,” Shelby said. “And some were more than one person, especially if they were scribes within a temple. It’ll typically only have a symbol of the God or Goddess they were in service to notated rather than the name of the scribe.”

I eased the cover open. Sure enough, there was only the owl and iris flower emblem that signified Medea’s temple. I turned another page, my interest piqued. Like the book about the pantheon, there were illustrations done with exquisite skill. I traced the first one as I slowly worked out the older version of Alwesh. Two large pillars made of black stone that reflected the light rose from the ground, a roman arch made of the same stone connecting the two. Surrounding it was grass as green as the Scottish hills, nearly neon even with the illustration faded with time. A road ran through the arch, reaching toward a town in the middle distance. The buildings were two or three stories tall, made of red clay that sat in stark contrast to the green grass, and sat nestled along a river’s banks. Mountains rose in the distance, the tops covered with snow. Based on the scale, the arch must be nearly as tall as the Arc de Triomphe.

The Gates of Eternity.

I tried to parse out more of the passage, but the ink was faded enough to make the old Alwesh even more difficult to understand. I turned the picture to Amaria.

“Is this Arcadia? I’m having a hard time reading the information about it.”

She nodded. “It’s what it’s believed to look like, yes. A place of rest and community.”

It certainly seemed peaceful.

I flipped through the rest of the entry without working to decode it. If the first page was that difficult, I doubted any of the rest of it would be easier. I could always come back to it again in another few weeks when my skills were improved. For now, just like with the pantheon initially, I focused on the illustrations.

I turned another page, and my heart climbed into my throat, beating so loudly it was all I could hear pulsing in my ears. The illustration was the same watercolor, scientific style as the others. And yet, all I could feel was the arms of that man around me, his chest moving underneath my ear as he turned the pages of the small book in his hold to show me a drawing. I traced the flying buttresses that came off two sides of the rotunda’s dome, perfectly framing the large arched windows that were taller than any I’d seen in the Basilica. His promise to take me there flowed over me, strong enough I swore I was back in that dark house.

I carefully parsed out the entry heading even as I pushed down the visceral reaction.

Life Cathedral, Home of Persynthia.

Holy Gods, the dream was real. Which meant that man…

I cut the thought off. Not with Callum gone, across the kingdom. Not with that prophecy still something only the two of us knew.

“Is it all right if I take this one back to the estate?” It was only years of holding myself together for the sake of Sloane that kept my voice calm and slightly detached.

Vincent glanced up, a knowing smile curving his lips. “You like it?” When I nodded, he chuckled and eased to his feet. “Yes, I’ll go let the librarians know you’d like to study this one for a while.”

43

AMETHYST

Shelby set down the box of pins she’d been organizing and rose to her feet.”I’m going to get ready for the play,” she said with a soft smile when I looked toward her. “Do you want help with your hair tonight?”

It was habit to double-check the ribbon-adorned pin that held back a portion of my hair just behind my ear. Nothing about it felt amiss, and the wind had been nearly nonexistent. I shook my head.

“I think I’ll just go like this.”

Even if part of me didn’t want to leave, was already cringing at the thought of being in one of the two amphitheaters on the other side of the river, surrounded by hundreds of other people. I swallowed down the groan that tried to climb my throat. Shelby only nodded and circled my wrist before leaving for the house.

I’d opted for the larger garden when I’d grown restless after Vincent’s magic lesson. I’d navigated one of the stone paths that wove around the farthest portions of the estate, settling underneath an oak tree whose leaves were a bright green, its blossoms only just starting to fade with the coming warmth of the seasons. It was where Shelby had found ma an hour ago, sitting next to me without a word.

As her footsteps faded, I set down the children’s primer and started flipping through the small green book instead. Invariably, no matter how many other entries I looked over, I returned to the one depicting Persynthia’s home. I traced the arched windows and the support pillars, trying to decide if the stone was limestone or marble or maybe even sandstone. With the panic of realizing the dream had been real mostly gone, I was able to focus on the smaller details of the illustration. The carvings in the support pillars and buttresses that looked a lot like those decorating the Atheneum. The blue stone planters filled with flowers lush and full and spilling over the edges, white and purple and red and green. The lotus that sat at the heart of the doors leading inside, surrounded by the tail feathers of a phoenix in profile, its wings spread in preparation for flight. I hadn’t seen that particular motif or emblem before. The acolytes who served Persynthia in the Basilica used an emblem of a birdwing butterfly sitting in the middle of a sunflower.

Shoes tapped on the stone pathway behind me, pulling me from the book. The sun was starting its descent toward the horizon. We’d need to be leaving soon since Monique wanted to walk rather than ride. I set the ribbon bookmark carefully in the book and pressed it against my stomach without getting up. I wasn’t quite ready to face everyone.

“Is it time?” I asked.

The footsteps paused.

“Time for what?”

The honey voice flowed over me, and I gasped, twisting to look over my shoulder.

Callum stood a few feet away, his hands behind his back. He wore a simple brown tunic rather than any of his court pieces. His hair was down, long enough now to reach below the placket of laces that were undone, and there were heavy circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept well while gone.

My heart climbed my throat in mirror of the feeling in the library yesterday, making it impossible to say anything. Instead, I haphazardly rose to my feet, both books abandoned on the ground, and closed the distance between us. I flung my arms around his neck and buried my nose in the crook of his shoulder, a sound that was nearly a sob ripping past my lips. My knees bracketed his hips, the dress’s slit leaving my entire left leg exposed. His arms were warm and substantial across my back as he took my weight and chuckled into my hair. I breathed him in, soaked in the pine and wisteria scent that had faded from the clothing he’d left behind. That coiled inner part of me—the omega nature inside me—slowly relaxed with each lungful. He didn’t say anything else even as he kissed my temple and ran his hand along my spine, the touch featherlight.