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The Doire Knot symbol—the one the Celtic warriors used to give them strength—hanging on a piece of leather around his neck, made me hesitate.

“This can’t change anything,” I whispered against him. “It’s just…” I had wanted him for so long, and now he was in front of me.

“I know.” Aster’s breath was uneven. The need between us was easier now that it had been agreed that this could only be a fleeting thing. His fingers pulled at the hem of my shirt, finding skin, and then his mouth was back on my neck.

“And I still don’t trust you with those tattoos all over you and the oath on your wrist.”

“You shouldn’t,” he mumbled against my skin.

That should have been enough to make me walk back to the codex. But it wasn’t.

26

Torran and Kit had left—gone to their towers or wherever they went when not terrorising the locals. No one governed the Riders. They did what they wanted. Aster had told me he was going hunting on his Warhorse, so that meant he was doing things that he didn’t want me to know about.

They were giving me the illusion of freedom when we all knew that I couldn’t go anywhere—even once I had mended the codex. And how was I going to get out of being forced to marry? For I was quite sure that was what they had in mind for me.

The codex lay open where I had left it; the stillness of it unsettled me. Beside it, half-tucked beneath a folded scrap of cloth, was the little book. The one I had deliberately ignored while I was constantly being watched.

I wanted to understand why I was so drawn to it, but first I had to fix the codex and read for myself the knowledge that they all wanted so desperately.

I walked to the far end of the long stone table to where shelving had been cut directly into the walls, the shallow alcoves where tools still sat exactly where they had been placed all those years ago. Dust lay over everything in a fine film, and coated my fingers as I picked up a large book press wrapped in worn cloth, then a scalpel. On instinct, I quickly pulled the rest of what I needed from shelves and drawers. The cream linen thread was still in its wrapper. Bone needles in small paper packets. And a small jar of paste hardened with age at the top but gooey beneath. Generations of Skyworld scribes had used those same tools, and yet I had been taught the same skills.

Sitting at the central table, I picked up the codex; the wood beneath it had grooves carved into it where the scalpel had left the cutting board and kept going.

On inspection, the book was worse than I remembered. Its spine was split halfway down, and the leather on the cover was peeled back to reveal the board. Inside, the pages had warped and were brittle to the touch. It was amazing that the thing had survived as long as it had.

Silence settled as I got to work with the scalpel, carefully removing the leather from the board. The book shuddered. “I’m being careful, I promise,” I whispered, and then checked the room, making sure that I wasn’t overheard.

First, I needed to remove the pages from the cover. Some needed stitching back together, and then they would all need re-gluing to the muslin and then the spine. The book rumbled, answering the pressure of my scalpel. I swallowed and placed the point of the scalpel next to the first thread.

“Here we go,” I whispered.

I was used to the buzz of the Barren’s Grand Library workshop, with twenty-nine other apprentices all sewing new books together or glueing the damaged ones. I had practised book restoration on my own deep into the night, making sure I was the very best, beating the other apprentices to get the book restoration position. I’d endured Master Frickel’s barked orders, his ‘accidental’ touches, and the eye-straining work of restoring books by candlelight, coaxing the book magic back into the pages and reviving the lost knowledge. I found out that if the rebellion wanted our kingdoms’ books back, then I needed access to the archives, and only the book restorers got to go down there.

The thread came apart under the point of the scalpel, and several pages shifted loose at once. The parchment was darker toward the edges, discoloured by age.

That was the first lie—all those books in the archive appeared empty, but they were just waiting for the right reader. I ran my thumb along the inner margin and felt it. A tremor. Like something buried too deep, trying to rise.

“The Barren didn’t destroy you either,” I said softly. “They just… silenced you by locking you in that room.” That, I understood.

I began with the structure as I had been trained to do. Carefully, I lifted the loose gatherings free, stacking them in order as best I could. The codex seemed to guide me with small, insistent vibrations. A page that didn’t belong where I placed it would hum until it was in the correct place.

The old stitching came away easily, and then I worked the needle through the existing holes so I wouldn’t tear the paper further. The thread I chose was finer than what had been used before, and stronger. It had been infused with Earthworld incantations, just like the ones in the Grand Library.

As I worked, the air grew warmer—it was the familiar glow of magic as the book came back to life. And then I noticed the amulet was hot against my skin. It may have always been that way; I may have overlooked it in the Barren, given the constant need for vigilance. But I didn’t stop to pull it out and check it.

Once the pages were secured, I pressed the block between boards, tightening the clamps. The codex settled under the pressure. I stabbed the blade through the hardened surface of the glue and made the hole wider, then stirred it until it was loose enough to spread.

I placed a strip of muslin on top and then the glue over it.

Now all I had to do was wait for it to dry.

***

When I returned, I took the book pages out of the clamps and checked that the pages had fused to the muslin. Then I studied the leather cover with the gold emblem of a phoenix on the front, which needed to be reunited with its pages. It was damaged but not beyond saving. I smoothed the glue over the spine and covers, placed the new endpapers over the cover and pressed everything down with careful, even strokes of the bone folder.

And all the while, that presence—the book magic—grew. In the room and on the pages. It pressed against my skin, just as it had done in the Grand Library.