Total pages in book: 295
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
I step out of Xaden’s arms. “What are you doing standing in the middle of the hallway? You look like you’re ready to drop.”
“You’re on it with the compliments today.”
Clearly, I need better shields if it’s that easy for Xaden to slip in again.
“Waiting for someone.” Nolon scratches a few days’ growth of beard on his jaw. “And I suppose I could use some rest. It’s hard work, mending a soul. Been at it for months now.” His smile lifts on one side, but I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “You’ve been well so far this year? I haven’t been called to mend you.”
“I’m all right. I subluxated my shoulder a couple of weeks ago and—” I don’t know if he’s as close to Varrish as my friends have hypothesized. The thought gives me pause and keeps me from mentioning the burnout. “And I’ve been really good about keeping my knees wrapped. No broken bones yet, either.”
“Good.” Nolon nods as the door behind us opens. “That’s good.”
“I’m here!” Caroline Ashton races forward, passing us on the left. “Sorry I’m late!”
“Punctuality is appreciated,” Nolon lectures her before looking my way. “Do us both a favor and stay healthy, Violet.”
“I will,” I promise.
Caroline shoots a quick glare in my direction, and they disappear into the infirmary, the door closing softly behind them.
“She didn’t look hurt,” I note as Xaden and I start toward the Archives again.
“No, she didn’t,” Xaden agrees. “Must be visiting another cadet from First Wing. Nolon looks like he’s about to burn out himself. Have there been more injuries than usual?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Ridoc thinks they’re using Nolon for interrogations.” My face crinkles. “But I’m not sure if he was serious or not. It’s hard to tell with Ridoc.”
“Hmm.” That’s all he says as we descend, the tunnels slanting downward toward the lowest point of Basgiath. The deeper we go, the cooler the air becomes, and the sharper a pang I recognize as grief resonates in my chest.
“What are you thinking? Your face just fell,” Xaden notes quietly as we pass by the stairs that lead up to the main campus.
“Nothing.”
“You can’t expect more than one-word answers from me and not give the same.”
He has a point.
“My father loved this place. He was ecstatic when my mother was assigned here because it meant that he’d have the full resources of the Archives.” I smile at the memory. “Not that he didn’t love maintaining the records and libraries at the outposts we were stationed at, but to a scribe, this place is the pinnacle of a career. It’s their temple.” We round the last curve, bringing the vault-style door into view. The circular entrance is ten feet across and guarded by a singular scribe, who’s asleep in his chair.
“A well-guarded one.” Xaden shoots a disgusted look at the sleeping scribe.
“Promise me you’ll be on your best behavior.” I grip his elbow so he knows I mean it. “She’s an old friend.”
“So was Aetos.”
I narrow my eyes.
“If she’s a true friend, then she has nothing to worry about.”
“Look, if she was going to turn me in, she would have done it when I requested The Fables of the Barren last year,” I tell him as we cross into the Archives.
“You. What?” His jaw flexes, and he breathes deeply when we reach the table. The Archives are empty again, thank Zihnal, but that’s why Jesinia chose Saturdays.
“Before Mira gave me the book at Montserrat, I requested it. And I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But no one showed up at my door. No one hauled me off and divested me of my head. Because we. Are. Friends.”
He remains silent as Jesinia approaches, her gaze widening as she looks between us.
Her steps slow.
“He’s with me,” I sign, offering a smile. “Stop scaring her.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“That’s enough. Trust me.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she signs back, nervously biting her lip, her focus darting to Xaden.
“No.” I hand the bag over to her, and she slings the strap over her shoulder. “They’re all too recent…and vague.”
Her lips purse in thought.
“Maybe we should shift to something about the history of wards in general?” I suggest.
“Give me a couple of minutes. I have an idea.”
“Thank you for helping us,” Xaden signs.
Jesinia nods, then disappears into the rows of bookshelves.
“You can sign,” I whisper at him.
“You speak Tyrrish,” he replies. “One is far less common than the other.”
We stand there in awkward silence, our argument still festering—at least on my part. I never know how he’s feeling, which is one of our problems. By using that one word with Jesinia—us—he’s linked himself to me. If she turns me in, he’ll be dragged down, too.
“Try these two,” Jesinia signs when she returns, then hands over the bag. “Also, I returned yours. Thank you for letting me read it.”