The library would never stop making her feel like a child. It was one of these places that never lost that sensation of not being allowed inside, of tiptoeing around corners and trying to be out of sight.

The room’s interior did not justify that fear: Rows upon rows of shelves that reached the ceiling; filled with scrolls and maps and books, both with their titles on the edges and newer ones with round spines and their titles written there. And in between all those things, odd trinkets and small copies of statues stood as sentiments for all the places Lord Orniad had visited, or his friends lived.

Ladders were attached to the shelves, making the upper levels accessible.

The room itself was still gigantic, and everything in there looked expensive. The bookshelves were made not from wood but from mother of pearl and from clear blue sodalite. The shelves were of course not distributed randomly but one row mother of pearl, one row sodalite. Contrary to popular belief, this was not only meant to show off the family’s riches. It also protected the books because both materials took far longer to melt and burn than wood. Of course, parchment did not really burn but when Inia’s grandmother had designed that library, she had taken great care to avoid anything happening. With all the fire and all the books, accidents could happen and who would want to salvage a burned room, as big as that? Besides, the fact that parchment itself did not burn was only a crumb of comfort when wax and wood did.

When Inia was a child, the library had been set up a bit differently: There had been a grand fireplace with luxurious sofas and a long, low table to one side of the room. A place for important people to gather and talk, for the last hours of a relaxed dinner party, and discussions that were technically private but still required an absurd number of witnesses.

Inia remembered sneaking into this room, Yewubdar at her side, one evening in autumn. There had been a ball, that evening and it was still going on. But Mother had just ordered Inia to bed because it was getting too late for her.

After her governess had left, she had waited, counted to one hundred, and then, Yewubdar’s head full of dark, thick curly locks had peeked out behind one of the doors to her room. Giggling, shushing each other time and again, they had made their way to the library. Gently, slowly, they had pushed open the door. They had hidden behind a lush green fern, a plant near the door. Just in earshot to be able to hear the discussion that was going on between Inia’s father and the ambassador from the Nightlands, discussing Tenja’s and Mandlenkosi’s betrothal. It had been so exciting, so forbidden. Like shadows, they had clung to the far wall and only listened in for hours.

No one had caught them that night.

But on several other occasions, they had been caught. Guilt shot through her when she remembered Yewubdar’s face after the beating. Swollen, badly bruised.

The fern was gone now, so were the sofas and the great fireplace. The rows of shelves were not neatly but more chaotically arranged these days. A lot had changed. Still, Inia avoided coming here. Since Yewubdar had left, she probably hadn’t spent more than two or three hours in the library.

Her father had always complained that he needed more space for all the texts, and now he had got them. The rows and rows of shelves started almost immediately after one sat foot in the library. A forest to get lost in without setting foot outside the house.

Here and there, small tables and armchairs stood. Candlesticks and chandeliers gave off some light; light that made the nacre and the sodalite shine in beautiful ways. Still, the place made her feel uneasy.

House Orniad’s library was one if not the biggest human-owned library on the continent. A good deal of that collection had been added by her father. Lord Orniad was no academic. He had no formal education but he loved learning. He loved knowledge more than his right eye, and invested time and money and love into his library. The room was full of it. Full of knowledge, legend, folklore. Science, magic, rituals. Maps of the old continents, rumors. If his findings wouldn’t pay off now and then, her mother would have put a stop to his wasteful activities a long time ago. But they did pay off.

Without his research, that match between Tenja and Mandlenkosi couldn’t have been struck that easily. There was a long, hateful tradition between both families. But father had given mother a way to work around that problem back then. He had also been the one who had read tales to his children when they were younger. His voice had painted giants for Sania, so bright and large and mysterious, she would never awake from their spell. He had encouraged her all those years — even told her, that the ongai would help her with her research. And he would back her up in every way possible if his daughter just asked.

Sania’s marriage to Raskra had reduced the influence, Lord Orniad still had over the household greatly. Mother had been enraged back then, and even though she seemed to be confident that this connection would pay off, too by now, she had not forgiven her husband. Or her daughter.

Out of all the children they both had, only Jaro had inherited their father’s unfiltered, unquestioning love for knowledge. While Sania had grown up to become a scholar, her interest was very specific, very focused. She also had an eye for quality besides good writing in a text.

Father and Jaro alike looked at each new piece of text with the naive eyes of children. They both dug through dusty old tales and records, and fables, and even things that had obviously been forged or made up. They absorbed it all, the bias, all the misconception, all the love, all the hate. All the darkness and all the light. Inia was sure, that it was a pain for Sania to debate with either of them. But while Jaro was at least aware that he spent his days reading actual garbage, their father still had not fully grasped the fact that he had no idea what he was talking about, most of the time.

Gladly, the information he dug up about cultures were mostly accurate or easily verifiable and mother always took the time to verify whatever nonsense her husband read somewhere.

Inia blew a stream of air out of her mouth. It made the hair on her forehead bob. No one was there. The part of the library she could see was empty.

When the servant had knocked and told her, that her father wished to speak to her in the library, she had sent him on his way, remarking that she did know where the library was. This had been a mistake. She had assumed he would wait for her right here. Sighing, she looked around. To her surprise, she saw that she had been mistaken. She was not alone. Jaro sat on a window bench, absorbed in a heavy tome. So absorbed in fact, he had not noticed how the light was dwindling. He would ruin his eyes that way.

She picked up one of the candlesticks from a table and walked to him. Maybe he could point her in the right direction. And she could give him some light.

“Careful with the flames”, he said when she had drawn closer, without looking up or pausing to read for a second.

She laughed. “And here I thought you’d be too busy to notice anything.”

He looked up. A small crease fled over his face, a small, irritated look he had learned to sport when he was little. Whenever he was forced to abandon a thought, to abandon the world he had carefully crafted for himself, he would look like that. “I was concentrated”, he said. “But I heard your footsteps. You forgot the slippers.”

Inia looked down at her feet. She was still wearing the simple high-heeled ones she used for practice and had indeed forgotten to pull over a pair of the felt slippers at the entrance. These slippers were not supposed to leave the room. They were there to muffle the noise of feet, and to protect the library from any dirt or moisture one might have at their shoes.

“It’s alright”, Jaro said. He closed his book and swung his legs down. In one fluid motion, he had left the bench and strode past her. Inia looked at him, a slim smile on her face. Sometimes, she forgot how nimble he could move. When he was a child, he had always practiced with her, and his body had not forgotten that. His movements were not carefully measured but gentle. He moved with a softness to every step, she would have liked to see in more men.

He came back with a pair of slippers and traded them for the candlestick. “Here you go”, he said, setting down the light.

“Thank you”, she said. She sat down on one of the low stools and scooped the slippers over her shoes, thanking the Shadow that her shoes had square stacked heels and she would still be able to walk with them without endangering herself.

“You are looking for father, right?”, Jaro asked.

Inia straightened and saw the look in his eyes; something between defiance and distance. “Well”, she said, “maybe I’m looking for you.”

He chuckled. “I doubt it. No one ever looks for me.” Strangely, there was no sadness in his voice. She felt it, though. She felt her own sadness welling up for him, in his place, maybe. He might be content with being the offspring no one could imagine a use for, but she wasn’t. She did not want to make him feel that way.

“That’s not true”, she said.

“Oh, so you are here for me?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Sorry, little brother”, she said. “But next time, I promise.”

He shrugged, then pointed to the far wall. “He’s in the back. Family history it is today, I believe.”

She nodded. “You don’t happen to have any idea what he wants from me, right?”

Jaro shook his head. “No idea. But I think he’s in a good mood.”

At that, she felt a knot in her chest loosening up. She hadn’t even noticed it.

“Now, if you’d excuse me”, he said and turned pointedly back to his book.

She smiled. “Of course, go back to your stimulating intellectual voyage”, she said. She felt the urge to ruffle through his hair but restrained herself.

Turning away from him, she stepped deeper into the library.