A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(8)
The door opened, and one of the footmen carried in a tray laden with an exquisite china set. He placed it on a table before us and poured steaming chocolate into two delicate cups. The scent warmed me at once, and—yes!—he’d even included a plate of fresh gingerbread. My favorite. Blackwood handed me a cup, looking pleased with himself.
“How did you know I’d be reading in here?” I immediately snatched up some of the gingerbread.
“You always read in the evenings. I know you too well.”
“Oh? I must be very dull.”
Blackwood considered this a moment. “No. I believe I like anticipating you.”
“Am I that easy to predict?” I blew on the chocolate and sipped.
“I like a good routine.” He was reading another of the papers intently and placed his hand on the sofa, brushing the edge of my dress. I moved myself a bit farther down the couch. He meant nothing by it, of course, but one could become too comfortable.
“Do you want to help me?” I had a large pile of papers to get through, after all. But Blackwood quickly put down what he was reading.
“I really shouldn’t involve myself.” He handed me the paper delicately, as though it would bite him. “But tell me if you find something.” He knelt on the floor to pick up some scattered pages. He got caught up in one of them—they were interesting, after all—and sat there quite at ease and informal. When I’d first met him, the idea of Blackwood sitting on the floor would have been a ridiculous one. What a difference a few months made.
“If I find anything important, you’ll be the first person I tell,” I said.
“Good,” he replied. He gazed back into the fire, a distant expression on his face.
“What is it?” I asked. He shook his head.
“It’s nothing. Read as long as you’d like.” He was on his feet with a speed and grace that bordered on feline, and was gone.
The only sound in the room was a log snapping in the hearth as an hour crept by. I ate the gingerbread, careful not to get crumbs everywhere, and read until my eyes were blurry.
For the next two days, that was my routine. Wake, train with Valens, patrol the barrier when it was my turn, and in the evening read in the library. I went painstakingly through every scrap of paper, but while they were fascinating, they were also fundamentally useless.
The magical trunk regurgitated the oddest bits and bobs. I found a tin soldier that turned into a living caterpillar when touched. There was a powder that made my skin itch and turn green, twenty empty snuffboxes, and a tiny hand mirror with what appeared to be a crystallized thumbprint in the center. When I touched the print, for two seconds I had the most intense flash of an image: a young girl, approximately my age, with dark skin and beautiful bright eyes. She smiled in a pink silk gown. The image vanished when I dropped the mirror in surprise.
Indeed, Mickelmas had millions of secrets.
Stories of famous and irascible magicians filled the pages of his books; histories of the great Washing Tub War of 1745, in which two magicians, Esther Holloway and Tobias Small, engaged in a duel to see who could scrub all the linen in London by magic alone. There were mentions of Ralph Strangewayes, the founder of English magicianship, and his wild abilities to summon beasts from the air and bring forth gold from the ground.
When it came to the Ancients’ war, though, only the standard order of events could be found: Mickelmas and Willoughby (and Blackwood’s father, Charles, but no books contained that piece of information) opened a tear in reality twelve years ago. R’hlem and his creatures came through that tear. Even after all this time, little was known of R’hlem himself. His powers included the ability to rip all the flesh from someone’s bones with nary a thought, and he clearly had some other psychic abilities—I had met him on the magicians’ astral plane, after all. But suppose he had other powers, ones he had not yet shown to us all? Our knowledge of him was so sketchy, even compared to how little we knew of the other Ancients.
On the third night of reading well past the time I should have been asleep, I was growing frustrated with myself. The fire was low, and my temples throbbed. I rubbed my eyes before standing to stretch, my corset pinching me in the ribs.
I should go up to Lilly soon and prepare for bed. It wouldn’t do to keep her waiting too long.
But I couldn’t help looking back at one of the pictures of R’hlem’s victims. I’d stumbled upon a rather grisly description of how he liked to skin people. He started with the hands, ripping the flesh away while the poor bastard watched himself being flayed alive. I imagined myself screaming as he peeled me like an orange.
The door creaked open. My fingers burst into flame on instinct.
“Henrietta?” Rook came to me, cap in his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Groaning, I put my fire out and flung my arms around him, my heart hammering. “I was just scaring myself. I’m very good at it,” I muttered. Rook squeezed me back. For one sweet moment I didn’t think about monsters. Rook released me, taking a polite step away.
Again, always the image of politeness. Sighing, I grabbed the book I’d been reading from off the floor.
“I was afraid I’d miss seeing you,” he said, stepping toward me again. This was our dance now: he would move near, and then shy away like a colt. Frustration churned inside me.
Perhaps all he needed was a little encouragement? But I didn’t even know how to begin. Flutter my eyelashes? Pretend to trip and get him to catch me? Somehow that didn’t seem like, well, us.