The next morning, Alarick tracked Elissa down in the kitchens where the cook was giving her the tour. She looked miserable, and Alarick felt a rare flare of sympathy for her. She was so young and had just lost her family, her entire world. He doubted that laboring in the steamy, stuffy kitchens would be much of a balm on her soul. Baines was correct. He was an unbearable jackass.
"May I take Miss Stone?" he asked the cook who bowed slightly at Alarick's approach.
"Of course, Master Brandon. Will she be joining me later?" he asked.
"I think not," Alarick said. "I have found employment for her elsewhere, somewhere better suited to her talents."
To Elissa, he simply said, "Follow me."
They exchanged no small talk as they walked. He had nothing to say and she seemed to possess enough sense to keep silent and simply follow instructions. Alarick was not unaware that he often intimidated people, but he preferred people to fear him than to try to draw too close. Messy entanglements began with chitchat and he wasn't inclined toward disorder.
They left the kitchen and went up a flight of stairs to the main entrance hall. There, a massive stone staircase led to the next level of the castle. At the top of these steps, they turned left and walked down a wide hallway that ended in massive double wooden doors. Alarick tapped the lock with his wand and the doors groaned open on hinges that clearly were not used often.
Despite the lack of use, the massive library was pristine. The floor was white marble. An alternating gold and black compass pattern filled the center of the room. The library stretched three floors above them. Ladders were stationed at regular intervals on each floor, allowing access to the highest shelves. Desks and chairs filled the space on the first floor and the odd chair snuggled up against the railings on the higher floors. Windows at the top of the room let in the morning light, but there were plenty of lanterns available for after-dark reading.
"Oh," Elissa whispered, drawn toward the nearest shelves like iron toward a magnet.
"Wait," Alarick said, pointing his wand at a door across the room. The door opened, revealing a much smaller room.
"Come," he said, beckoning her into the new room. She followed without taking her eyes off the books in the main library until she bumped into the doorframe and jarred herself into watching where she was going. Alarick stifled a laugh.
An ornate scribe's desk, crafted at an angle to prevent hunching over manuscripts, sat next to the large window cut into the wall. A small stool was tucked under the desk. Other than that, there was no ornamentation in this room.
"A scriptorium," she breathed, walking over to the desk and caressing the surface as though afraid it might disappear at her touch.
"Correct. You will work here," Alarick said.
"Doing what?" she asked.
"Whatever it is you think needs to be done for these books," he said walking back into the main library. He leaned casually back against a desk and crossed his legs at the ankles.
"This library was created by my predecessor, Master Hale. I suspect you would have gotten along famously with him. However, he is no longer here, and I share neither his appreciation nor time for books. That is why the library has fallen into disuse.
"I leave it to you to decide what is to be done here. Certainly, some organization is required, and you may opt to use your talents on any or all the books here. Protect them as you see fit to keep them out of the Ministry's hands. My only request is that you leave them accessible to yourself and to me, at a minimum. If they are only accessible to you and something unfortunate should happen to you, they would be lost."
Elissa circled the room, running her fingers over the spines of more books than she'd seen in her lifetime.
"Do you understand what I can do?" she asked, plucking a book off the shelf and leafing through the pages.
"No. Nor do I care. I only care that you have useful employment while here. I do, however, have a friend who has heard of your kind. You are a Book Mesmer. Did you know that?"
She shook her head. "No. I believe the word most people used was ‘lunatic.’”
"Apparently your talents are rare and, I'm assured, valuable. My friend is so impressed that you are here, he is already making plans to come visit you. You should be flattered because he doesn't like anyone, and he's even less inclined toward social calls than I."
She wandered back to the scriptorium. "I'll need some supplies," she said. "Quills, ink, some straight edges, parchment, and some paint. Well, I can make the paint myself if given access to the gardens and the surrounding grounds to forage for plants and minerals."
"Make a list of what you need and give it to the Master of the Household. His name is John Lucas, and he can procure what you need or have it made in the shop. You'll usually find him in his office off the main entrance hall." Alarick pushed away from the desk and started toward the door.
"Oh," he said, turning back toward Elissa. "You will find the books you brought from Keldon over there, on the bottom shelf." He pointed to a wide shelf on the left where her books were indeed stacked neatly. "Feel free to either incorporate them into the main collection or keep them separate."
"How did you get them in here?" she asked. "They were in my bedroom this morning."
"Magic," he said, striding out into the hallway and closing the library doors behind him.
As they latched, he heard her squeal of delight, and a tiny smile turned up one corner of his mouth.
The smile didn't last long, however. On his way back to his office, he crossed paths with John Lucas.
"Ah, John," he began. "I've just spoken with Miss Stone. She'll be looking for you shortly to requisition supplies for the scriptorium."
John appeared surprised by this news, but asked no questions. The library and scriptorium had been off limits since the death of Master Hale, so it was small wonder if the news of its reopening was shocking.
"I'll give her whatever she needs, sir," he said. "But I was actually looking for you."
"Why?"
"I was in my office when I heard a great commotion in the entrance hall. I went to see what was the matter and, well, sir…" he trailed off.
Whatever the news was, Alarick knew it wasn't good. John never had trouble speaking to him and right now he looked like he wanted a portal to open in the stone floor and whisk him to another universe.
"It's your parents, sir."
"What about them?" Alarick asked, pronouncing each syllable in a cold, flat monotone.
"They are here," John said. "In the entrance hall. David is holding them there. They wanted to come up here, but he made them wait for you."
Alarick straightened to his full height, tugged down the edges of his frock coat and adjusted the buttons so that all were straight and neat. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing it away from his shoulders and face. Let them look at him. They would not find him disheveled.
"Very well," he said. He turned around and went back to the main stairs. At the top he paused and looked down into the entrance hall. His parents had, indeed, arrived. Alarick's hope that John was mistaken or that these people were imposters dissolved.
They looked older, of course, as anyone would after twenty-six years. Smaller, too, but that was simply because he was now bigger. He was not the runty, scared eight-year-old boy they'd abandoned on Master Hale's doorstep all those years ago. And he would make certain they knew that.
He descended the stairs deliberately, slowly bearing down on these people who had the nerve to show themselves. David, guard duty complete, fled as Alarick approached.
"What do you want?" he asked when he reached the bottom step. He did not raise his voice, nor did he peg his tone with hysteria. The question was flat, emotionless, and enunciated with deadly precision.
"Alarick," his mother said, moving forward as if to embrace him.
He took a deliberate step backward. She shrank back as if slapped, returning to her husband's side and clutching his arm. He saw nothing of himself in his mother. She could have been anyone or no one.
Unfortunately, one glance at his father showed a disappointing number of similarities. They had the same black hair, although his father's was streaked with gray and cut shorter than Alarick's shoulder length cut. They shared a vertical dimple between their eyebrows, a strong Roman nose, the same defined upper lip, and the same creases at the corners of their mouths that accentuated every grimace or smile beyond normal expression. Alarick sighed. So much for hoping that he did not share his father's deeply flawed constitution.
"Son," his father began, but Alarick stopped him with a raised hand.
"No. You are not permitted to use that term with me. I am not your son. You forfeited the right to use that term the day you left me here."
"We had no choice," his mother said. "Surely you understand now that you're grown and have responsibilities of your own."
"I understand nothing," he said. "Except that you needed to run from the Ministry and a child was too much baggage to carry."
"You couldn't earn your keep," his father said. "Your powers were too weak. You weren't developing quickly enough to help keep us alive. You were a liability. I couldn't protect your mother, you, and myself. We knew Master Hale would take care of you. And it appears he did."
Alarick clutched his hands behind his back and leaned over his father.
"He did. And you will not speak his name again. State your business and be on your way."
"We've come to ask for refuge," his father said. "Our village was destroyed several months ago. We have nowhere else to go. My powers weaken with age and I'm no longer strong enough to survive a fight with the Ministry. We've been living on the streets in London, struggling to avoid detection. Survival is impossible. We cannot work for fear of accidentally exposing ourselves, and we cannot use magic to meet our needs without drawing attention, either. We will die without safe shelter."
Alarick turned and began to walk away. Their request didn't merit an answer. As if he would provide refuge to the very people who'd denied it to him when he needed it most.
Before he could reach the stairs, his father lunged forward and clutched Alarick's sleeve.
"You owe us this," he said. "You live here in safety and comfort, thanks to us. We gave you this, now give us something in return."
Alarick stopped and stood perfectly still. Slowly, he turned to his father. He studied the man for a moment before speaking. Images flashed through his mind. Father beating him because he couldn't turn a butterfly into a bird. Mother withholding food until he managed to render a rock invisible. Father screaming at him because he couldn't disarm a mannequin dressed as a Ministry official.
His older sister, Eleanor, lying dead on the ground in front of their house because Father accidentally bashed in her head with a cast iron skillet intended for Alarick's own head. Alarick could no longer remember which alleged offense of his had caused that outburst.
Eleanor, bigger, faster, and more powerful, had jumped in front of Alarick to protect him. Father couldn't check his swing quickly enough and Eleanor couldn't cast her protection spell in time. Alarick could still hear the thud and subsequent crack as her skull splintered.
She lay there in the dooryard, her blond hair turning red with the blood running from the wound until his father ordered Alarick to bury her. It took the eight-year old boy two days to dig the hole big and deep enough. By that time, she was decomposing quickly. The image of her remains still haunted his dreams. Her name was never spoken in their house again. Two months later, his parents abandoned him at the Keep.
"I owe you nothing," he whispered. "Nothing. Get out. If you ever return, I will kill you."
"Oh, you talk like that to your parents, do you?" his father asked. "Power does not give you the right."
"I speak to you as I would anyone who mistreated children as you did. That you are my parents is my unfortunate burden to bear. And if I ever see you again, I will relieve myself of it. Permanently."
He turned to find John standing at the base of the stairs.
"See them out," he instructed him.
Alarick was halfway up the stairs when he heard the heavy front doors slam and his father's voice, muffled but clear enough.
"I should have killed you, too, instead of leaving you here. I did you a favor and this is how you repay me."
Alarick kept walking. At the top of the stairs he glanced left, toward the library, and saw Elissa standing in the hallway, frozen near one of the windows. He stopped and gazed at her. He expected her to turn and run back into the library. Instead, she inched toward him.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Truly. I was coming to look for Master Lucas, as you suggested, and I heard voices. I shouldn't have listened."
"No, you shouldn't. And I trust that you will repeat nothing you heard here today. There are not many who know my circumstances. I prefer it to remain that way."
"Of course not. I would never—"
"Good," he said cutting her off before she could launch into some maudlin appeal for him to feel free to talk to her about it, or to tell him that she was sorry. "I court neither your pity nor your understanding."
Without another word, she turned and fled back to the sanctuary of the library. He turned and walked in the opposite direction, bound for his office.