Anouk drew in a deep breath. Beau, Cricket, Luc, Hunter Black—they needed her to succeed. It wasn’t just her own fate on the line. She glanced out the window, saw the moon high overhead. “Esme showed me the library. Is it open all night?”
If there were a million possible ways for a girl to discover her crux, then she’d better get started. She could try prayer, like Esme. Or touch all the samples of life-essences in the storerooms. Or jog through the snow barefoot, like Sam. But spells had always held a special place in her heart, as had the Selentium Vox. She might as well begin there.
Petra made a face. “You aren’t seriously going to stay up all night.”
“Tonight and every night. As long as it takes.” She slid her feet into the coarse wool slippers she’d found by her bed, lit a candle, and headed for the library.
Chapter 11
For days, Anouk’s world was filled with books. She spent every minute between her kitchen shifts in the library, bent over a dusty volume. She memorized hundreds of new phrases in the Selentium Vox. She learned the eleven words that meant “night,” the four words that meant “day.” She found a yellowing old volume on a top shelf that had been handwritten by one of the original Royals, an ancient baron of the Lunar Court, the pages so old they barely stayed intact in her hands. She memorized spells for withering trees, tricks for flooding a riverbed, whispers for mending a broken heart. Marta kept her company, though she was such an unobtrusive soul that Anouk often forgot she was there. Marta liked to study while wrapped up in a blanket on the floor, stacks of books around her, eating from a jar of pickled black walnuts. Anouk had glanced at Marta’s books—they were mostly political theory of the Haute and histories of the ancient Royals. When Marta read, it was like the world stood still; the only sounds were pages turning and walnuts being nibbled.
Anouk rubbed her eyes. She’d been at the Cottage for a week and didn’t have a clue what her crux might be. No lightning had struck her when she’d read references to sunflowers. She’d gotten no flashes of insight when she learned the Selentium Vox words for “fox fur.” She slammed her most recent book shut—a genealogy of previous witches and their cruxes—and opened a new one at random. Her candle flickered over a page streaked with dust. Her eyes snagged on one phrase.
Gray rainbows
She was suddenly aware of how quiet the library was. She frowned and scooted the book closer. It had been handwritten by the Pretty monks who lived here centuries ago. Gray rainbows. It was eerily similar to the plagues in London that Rennar had told her about. Black rainbows, he had said. Could it be a coincidence? She held her candle closer and kept reading.
. . . besieged by the curse, overtaken by the plagues. The triple moons and gray rainbows. Rainstorms of worms. Dublin . . . to Prague. A madness over the population . . . they call it . . . the Noirceur . . .
“The Noirceur,” she whispered to herself. The book was badly damaged, though the words were legible. She scanned the next few pages, which told of plagues that were similar to what was happening in London. Gray rainbows in the past, black rainbows now. Triple moons before, double moons now. Rainstorms of worms then, falling toads now. How could history written about centuries ago in a random book be repeating itself?
She ripped out the pages and put them in her pocket before rifling through the rest of the book for similar references.
. . . worms falling from the sky . . .
. . . the Noirceur, the Darktime . . .
She ripped out those pages too. She skimmed through the rest of the book until her candle burned out, and the next night, she moved onto another book written by the same monk. She spent long nights poring over the books, hoping for another passage that might explain the odd references.
One night a week later, Marta stuck her head around the shelves, startling Anouk. Marta grinned. “I’m going to get some of the leftover bread from supper. Do you want anything?”
Anouk hesitated, and then, before she could stop herself, she took out one of the pages that she’d been collecting throughout the week. She smoothed it out and tapped a word.
“Marta, have you ever come across references to something called the Noirceur?”
Marta blinked, thinking. “Not that I recall.”
“Or plagues? Strange phenomena like creatures raining down from the sky, multiple moons, that sort of thing?”
Marta cocked her head. “There are some accounts like that, legends about the early Royals. About the Snowfire Court, what is now part of the Hammer Court, far north in Siberia and Scandinavia. And there are a few ballads about the mystical King Svatyr and Queen Mid Ruath and how they banished a dark evil while dressed in fabulous bearskin cloaks and wearing glittering powder on their lips. Sometimes that ‘evil’ is referred to as plagues. The accounts of King Svatyr and Queen Mid Ruath aren’t in any of these books, though. I saw them in the Duke’s personal library while I was feeding Saint. I used to browse through the books until he caught me. Since then he doesn’t let me feed Saint unless he’s there.”
Anouk ran her finger over the page, thinking.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Marta said hesitantly, adjusting her glasses. She motioned to the stack of books by Anouk’s side. “But I don’t think you’re going to find your crux through study. You’ve been at it for almost two weeks. If you’re on the right path, you don’t fall asleep with your face in a book.” She motioned to a drool stain on Anouk’s collar. Anouk wiped it away guiltily. Marta grinned. “You need to find something that makes your soul sing. That fills you with joy like you’ve never known. Only that feeling can guide you to your crux.”
Anouk looked around at the dreary library, at the desiccated books and the cold stone floors, so different from Mada Vittora’s cozy library with its overstuffed chairs. If spending hours hidden away in here brought Marta such ecstatic joy, maybe Anouk was on the wrong path.
Marta leaned forward, pushing her glasses up. “You have something in you, Anouk. A fire. It was clear the night you arrived.” She touched her own chest. “You want magic as bad as I do.”
Anouk raised an eyebrow. “How did you learn about the Haute?”
Marta let out a puff of air and said dreamily, “I was in my first year at university. I was studying in a café for end-of-term exams. The café closed for the night, and I left to find a place where I could continue reading. I wandered the city and came across a drunk guy by the river. I was afraid he’d try to drown himself. He saw me calling to him and laughed. He said, ‘Can’t you see, pretty girl, that I’m walking on the water? Of course you can’t. Your eyes are closed. Here, my pretty. See.’ He raised the glamour and I saw him for what he was—a Royal. A minor count of the Minaret Court. That night, we sat on the riverbank and drank his wine and he told me about millennia of magic, of powerful spells, of passionate Royal affairs. I forgot about my exams. What did I care about school anymore after learning about the Haute? Screw the exams. Screw my degree. I wanted magic.”
“Didn’t he glamour you once the sun rose?” Anouk asked.