“Don’t be silly, Ara. The fact that he is your uncle is exactly why you can talk to him about anything. And he’s seen it all, my love, not just every ailment known to man, but he’s seen your entirely naked body, too. Who do you think stitched your organs back in after you fell off the lighthouse?”
I cringed.
“So don’t feel embarrassed around him. Just go show him and let him fix you.”
“Okay.” I looked at the floor just under the corner of my bed. “I’ll go see him now.”
“Thank you. And call me as soon as you’re done.”
“I will.” I hung up and stuffed the phone in my pocket as I landed on my hands and knees and lowered my face to the ground, peering under the bed. The book was still there, undiscovered. Clearly the maids didn’t sweep under here often.
I reached in and pulled it out, sitting with my back against the mattress after. There was only one sure-fire way to find a cure for anything, and that was to find the cause. But no matter how many times I studied this book, I never really found anything other than one conclusion about my role as this ordained goddess: I was an open book, and all my secrets were painted in cryptic ink on my body for all to see. None of the Marks I’d read about seemed to be anything more than images that told stories; each one shaped differently according to what I liked to call its ‘genre’. I knew there were Marks that could cause the bearer damage, heartache, all kinds of things, but none of these fit that category. Not even this so-called Mark of Betrayal. Far as I knew, it was harmless.
I flipped through the pages again, taking mental notes, and when I came to the page Petey showed me, stopped and ran my hand over it. There was only the one English translation, and I hadn’t yet learned enough words of the Ancient Language to decipher anything other than what I already knew. But I knew a few people who could. Only problem was, that would mean involving other people.
I lifted my top and checked the Mark. Just like the drawing in front of me, it was snakelike, wrapping my waist and hip from my rib to the soft patch of skin just above my pubic bone. It was red, raised, itchy, and black on top, like an incomplete tattoo.
“Betrayal.” I read the word aloud, smudging the ink slightly with my fingertip. I hadn’t done anything that would betray anyone, as far as I knew, unless Mother Nature considered falling off the lighthouse a betrayal.
I closed the book, shrugging. Maybe She did. Maybe, in Her opinion, being careless enough to be on a lighthouse and fall in the first place was betrayal. Who knew?
The only solid conclusion I had was that I’d done something to betray someone or something and, as an Auress, I couldn’t hide from it—like every secret thought or act that betrayed my crown would be catalogued physically. And that thought made me look up, even though the answer wasn’t above my sliding glass door. But something in my own words clicked: betrayal to the crown. There were things I could do as queen, decisions I could make to my own free will, provided I always had the peoples’ best interests in mind. So maybe that was it. Maybe I’d made some decision, committed some act that I hadn’t realised was going against my crown. If I could figure that out and put it right, maybe I could get rid of this Mark myself. But, to figure it out, I’d have to think carefully back to everything I did the day I fell off that lighthouse, and check that against my notes on the laws of the Lilithian reign, and maybe even against some of the known laws of Nature.
I snapped the book shut and stood up. I had a lot of study to do.
The flames burned low in the open fire across from me, their golden glow flickering against my hands and my books, lighting the words on the page. I could see now why Arthur lit the fire when he came here to read at night. It really was quite a lonely place, but not so desolate with those sparkling embers, and the smoky smell of burning wood kind of ‘took me home’ in a sense.
I sat down with another book in hand to cross reference, but the lure of Jase’s diary was calling me in a voice louder than the one seeking the answer about my Mark.
“Okay, okay. Just a little look,” I said to myself and shoved the giant Book of Shadows aside, its dusty pages snapping shut like an iron door. Jase’s book was small, no bigger than a short novel, with the leather having been bent so many times the spine was wrinkled and looked almost dirty between the cracks. I determined, as I gently unfolded the pages, that it must have been about a hundred years old. And I got a very sudden sense of respect for the wisdom Jase must have collected over that time.
The first page was titled by its date: 1914. There were scribbles and lines in the margins—notes taken then corrected, some in different inks, as if he’d come back to this page many times. In fact, all the pages seemed to be in the same condition, and I guessed he’d experienced signs of his telekinesis long before he actually knew what it was. I scrolled down through the curvy text, looking for keywords, since I really didn’t have time to sit and study the entire entry. When I spotted the words accidental and David, I narrowed my grid and read that passage:
My brother, David, staring back at me. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I hadn’t seen him for some months now, and to aim my gun right in his face and almost pull the trigger, well, let’s just say that’s not the happy reunion either of us expected. Our meeting was purely accidental, coincidental, who knows? But I was mighty glad to see the guy. For a while, I thought he was dead. I know that’s not possible, but I worried anyhow.
“This must have been from the war,” I whispered to myself, so awed by it that myself turned the page. “No.” I slapped my own wrist and closed the book. “Stay on track.”
“Okay, okay,” I replied and slid the giant Book of Shadows in front of me again, using a bit of might to pry it open and a bit of skill to stop the heavy pages on the right from flipping over and covering what I was reading on the left: the title page. Just the same as human parents once did in their family bibles, the names of each child in this witch’s bloodline had been scribed on the first page, a sort of naming ritual. And there, at the bottom, right under Callon LeFay, was Morgana.
I held my breath. She was real. And this could be living proof that she at least grew old enough to read. Perhaps this book was passed down to her. Perhaps she knew all the spells by heart. Maybe she was wondering what ever happened to the book.
As I went to turn the page—take a little stickybeak at some spells—a certain combination of letters in a very unusual name stood out at me from the list: Anandene.
“Anandene?” My nose crinkled. Anandene and Morgana were related?
There were no lines connecting the names. None that even connected Callon to Morgana, so there was no way to know if Anandene had been directly or distantly related to Morgana. The names were simply listed like required ingredients in a fancy dish.
Typical. I’d opened this stupid book to find answers, and all it had done was create another bloody mystery.I dropped my head into my hands.
As if I needed any more mysteries right now.
“Ooh, what spell are we doing?” Eve said, sitting on the desk beside the book—her legs crossed like a lady, an eager grin on her dead face.
“We are not doing any spells.” I gently turned a few pages until they balanced equally on each side. “I was hoping to find something that might get rid of unwanted ink.”
“Try the back of the book,” she muttered in a hateful huff and vanished.
I scowled at the empty space. “Thanks for your help.”
As the coals in the fireplace burned to embers and the early morning chill of an approaching autumn settled around my nose and ears, I flipped past hundreds of spells that healed broken or sick things, potions mixed for ailments and hopes, and when I came to the end of the book, found a stack of notes and spells stuffed in between the last page and the hard cover. One was a love spell. I tossed it aside. Did not need that. One was a sleeping spell. I tucked that into my pocket for the next time I needed an easy escape. But the last one I unfolded was written in another language, the page so thin and delicate I wasn’t sure it was actually ever paper.
I laid it beside a sheet parchment and scribbled down the symbols and words exactly, copying the pictures and the diagrams, then stuffed it all back in the book and closed it. I wasn’t sure what the spell did, but I knew of some translation books that could help me figure it out. And, also, I had Jason. He could read that language as well as Arthur could. I knew he’d help if I asked.
“The Aide-Memoire de l’Auress, an encyclopaedia of Lilithian law, and several books on magic,” Arthur said. “What could our young queen be searching for?”
“Arthur?” I gasped, flipping the books closed and most certainly losing my pages. “What are you doing up so late?”
He pulled out a chair beside me and sat down, moving a few books upward to make room for his elbow. “I’m not much of a sleeper.”
I felt the weight of being sprung bare down on me, making my whole face go hot. My fingers wrung the hem of my dress tightly and my eyes wouldn’t shift from the books. I needed to come up with an excuse for having these titles checked out, but I couldn’t think of one. “I—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to me, princess.” He reached across and patted my hand. “I was just teasing, but,” he said as he stood up. “If you need help with anything, you know you can come to me, right?”
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the books.
“Very well.” I saw him bow his head once in my peripheral. “I shall leave you to it. Just don’t stay up too much longer.”
“I won’t,” I said, then spun in my chair to look at him. “Arthur?”
“Yes, my dear.”
I took a deep breath, still considering my words. “I . . . I have a rash.”
His eyes squared off a bit under a furrowed brow. “What kind of rash?”
“Um, this kind.” I stood up and lifted my top. “I already know it’s a Mark of Betrayal,” I said, and Arthur’s eyes met mine. “I just can’t. . .” I motioned to the books behind me. “I can’t figure out why.”
He looked away, slowly exhaling. “I may know why.”
“Why?” I stepped closer. “What have I done?”
“It’s. . .” He seemed to be considering his words very carefully, looking from the books to me, and back again. “Eventually, you will figure it out. Eventually, it will not be a secret I can keep but, for now—” He bowed once. “I must ask you not to seek the answer.”
“Why?”
“Because I fear the truth could bring you more harm than a little rash on your flesh.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but took a second and let the words simmer through me instead, considering them, taking them for every ounce of meaning I could hear in his undertone and thinking long and hard in that second whether or not I wanted to challenge him. “Okay, so, maybe don’t tell me the truth right now, but at least tell me how it could bring me harm.”