Wystwood

56. Library of handwritten histories

It was achingly cold in the burrowing passageways beneath Wysthaven, and Ada was alone once again. Wrapped in her grandmother's cloak, with its hood drawn up and draping, she walked through an endless underground.

Ada had left the bandits and Min back in Hester's infirmary. She had been shaking when she had slipped through the doorway, unnoticed with all eyes on Min. The girl had spoken Ada's name with such a strength, such a power, that it had made Ada believe that nothing in the worlds mattered more than Min's will. Ada had seen magic, had participated in it, but had never had it used upon her. It hadn't felt mystical and wonderous, not like in fairy tales and bedtime stories; it had felt wrong, revolting.

She shivered and sucked in a breath of frigid air. Her chest was still sore.

It couldn't have been long past nightfall, though Ada wasn't certain as the sky was lost above layers of dirt, brick, and pavement. She could see though, as with each turn she took, new trails of sage-light sparked to life. Their low fires guided her down underground passageways, and Ada didn't care where they were taking her. She only wanted to be alone.

Shards of marble marked an arch into a particularly wide passage, and when Ada ducked through, she saw circular doors carved into the walls all the way down. Some of the entrances had been veiled with thin linen drapes, though others simply opened up into low, hollow rooms. Each had a small fire pit in their centre, which was circled around with pillows and stools. Many of the fires were lit, and the seats were occupied by fae of varying age and appearance. A few were eating by themselves, writing in journals, or sewing up smocks, but others were cooking meals with their families, the scent of sweet herbs and rich meat spiralling into the air.

Children laughed and dared each other near the fires, and Ada thought of Min's silence, then of games with her siblings. Heat prickled the corners of her eyes and she hurried on, careful not to peer into any more of the rooms. More sage-lights drew Ada up a short stack of stone steps, and she entered into the largest space she had so far seen in the underground city. Tables ran down the length of the room, and the ceiling was hung with bundles of vegetables and the occasional plucked chicken. Dried meats, hard loaves, and baskets of nuts covered the tables, and a number of fae walked between them with baskets.

Ada's stomach twisted and she edged towards the closest table. It was obvious that the best foods had been picked over already, but that hardly mattered as she grabbed a hunk of bread and a fat-lined slice of beef. She left before anyone could approach her, following the sage again and devouring her makeshift meal. She was retracing her steps, but before reaching the passage of fae families, the lights took an abrupt left, through a crack in a tall rock wall that stood hidden in the shadows.

Not wanting to return to the giggling fae children, Ada slipped through the crack without a moment's hesitation. Amongst the shadows, she saw lines of Old Fae written down the stone, but then she was blinded by a sudden burst of light. Ada had to blink up at the ceiling, where a mass of sage-lights had flared into fires simultaneously. They smouldered high above, bright as sunshine but drifting like stars set aflame. Beneath them rose shelf after shelf, stacked further than Ada could see and crammed with more books than she could have ever dreamed of.

Ada had never been to a library before, but she had heard of the ones in the great cities built far from the countryside. Her father had told her they were heaped with every study known to mankind, and if you went searching between the shelves you could discover anything, from myths to medicine. To think that she should find herself in a fae library, where notions beyond the loftiest of human imaginations could be printed within these thousands of pages.

Ada traced a finger along a nearby line of books, which were clear of dust but also of titles. No words, in either English or Old Fae, were written down their spines. She leaned closer when, from behind her, she heard the rustling of pages. Ada turned with a gasp. But there was nobody there, and the books lay still and silent. She inched over to the opposite shelf and peered around, but when no sound came again, she pulled out a book at random. It was plain and held shut with a knot of purple twine, which Ada unravelled easily and then flipped to the first page. The book was laid out like the academic journals Ada had studied at school, but the entire page was untidily written in ink and seemed to start immediately on the first chapter, without a title page or contents.