They took the longest, most labyrinthine path to Turold’s destination in Storksbill, an unfashionable district in the shadow of the Stanislav Clock. She made them stop several times to listen, terrified she could still hear the beating of angry wings or the snapping of mindless jaws. He couldn’t hear a thing, especially now that he knew what to listen for. Surely they had all perished in the flames, or been scattered to the winds, heedless of the god’s command? If they could just lose the Messengers a few more hours, he could make contact with Sonya Vasilyevna at first light. She would take charge of this affair, even if meant he had failed…even if she would inform the Council of his failure.
When he finally convinced her it was safe, they made their way through a nondescript door and up a winding stairwell to the Hidden Library. Many of the Order’s clandestine texts were kept here, and if an astrologer found himself afoul of the law, he could take up residence here until the King relaxed the edict. Turold may have spent a few nights here in his youth, and on one occasion, an entire year. But he had since been cleared of those charges (unofficially).
They were met by a sleepy librarian on his way to bed. He bid them make themselves comfortable and put out the lights when they finished. With the place to themselves, Turold collapsed on a spacious ottoman while she retired to a window to keep watch. In this light, and with her face shielded by her hood, he could almost imagine the woman she once was; young, adventurous, even beautiful. How devastated Sir Otrygg must have been to search through time and death to find her, only to retrieve everything but the face that warmed his heart. Without it, what could she be to him or to anyone else?
“I don’t feel them any longer. You’re right, they can’t sense us here,” she said.
“A powerful magic obscures this place, the very reason it’s still a secret,” he nodded. “They might find it eventually, but we only need a night. And I need some sleep.”
“I don’t sleep any longer,” she muttered.
“No sleep? Not even dreams?”
“Everything feels like a dream,” she said, tracing the glass. “But I can never wake up.”
“I know someone—I’ll take you to her tomorrow. I’m sure she can help you.”
“She can’t help me without the book.”
“And you’re sure it’s gone? You saw him destroy it?”
She didn’t respond directly, just gave a kind of half-nod that tapered off.
“Still, she might know a way,” he said, stretching out. “Sonya Vasilyevna was more than a match for my master, and he knew everything. As much as Sir Otrygg.”
“You shouldn’t be so impressed with him. He renounced his abilities at the end. And wept like a child.”
“We all have limitations,” he said, with a shrug. “That’s why we keep looking for lost secrets. We hope the next ‘codex’ will make the difference. Make us immortal.”
“I wouldn’t wish for that,” she said.
“No, I suppose not,” he agreed, wincing. “Tell me, what should I call you? Not Drifa, I assume?”
“No, not her. I would like something else, but I don’t know many names, or people. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Then lucky for you we’re stuck in a library,” he said, leaping up to the shelves and piles of books. “You can meet everyone in the world in here, past or present. And some who never existed.”
However, flipping through the first book—about the composition of cloud formations—made him less optimistic. As he pulled more books (at least four volumes about clouds!), she moved away from the window, idly inspecting the various objects in the room. Besides scraps of papers and broken quill nibs, she discovered an abandoned carnival mask in a chair. The mask was dark green, decorated with stars and planets, and included a pert nose and smiling lips. Turold looked up just as she slipped it on. And there, in that moment, he saw her as she once was, the illusion complete. Or as she once was, before her hasty marriage to Kastril, before their ill-fated duel.
“Giacinta,” he whispered.
“You found that in the book?” she asked.
“I…ah, no, no, it’s someone I knew, in my younger days. Sorry. Now, with the mask, you triggered a memory.”
“Giacinta,” she said, practicing it. “I like it. It sounds right, somehow. Would you mind?”
“No, that’s wonderful; better than cirrostratus, which is all I can find in here,” he said, with a smirk. “If that’s what you like, so be it. I like the mask, too. It makes you look…”
“Normal?”
He searched for a kinder response.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, I like normal. And you think I could walk through the streets like this?”
He studied her, almost unable to see the skeleton beneath, its horrifying grin.
“I think so, especially if you went out at night. Even now, I wouldn’t think twice, and I certainly wouldn’t see you as…as something else.”
“Is there a mirror? I want to see.”
Turold searched the room but found no mirrors, as every square inch had been devoted to books and places to read them. Probably why he spent so much time here, as it was the easiest way to escape his four-foot cell.
“I’m afraid this is the best we have,” he said, slipping off his spectacles.
She took them, seeing her distorted, discolored reflection in miniature. Still, the vision was lovely. She held them over her head, looking up, twisting sideways in both directions. Somehow, the entire mask seemed to glow with delight, though the expression never changed. It must be her eyes, which gazed over to him like a child at her first ball, seeking approval.
“Do you think I can keep it?” she asked, as she returned the spectacles.
“Of course. It’s just a carnival mask, purchased for a single night’s entertainment. Discarded in the morning.”
“Because they had another beneath,” she said, touching the nose and lips. “What a luxury to have more than one.”
“Can you remember your face? Anything of your former life?” he asked.
“At times I’m not sure I even existed. Though I do have dim memories, a few impressions, if you can call them that. I remember storms…and wind. But nothing that reminds me of Drifa or Sir Otrygg.”
“Do you think it’s possible…you weren’t? That his spell didn’t worked like he thought? That you might have been someone else?”
The smiling mask looked at him, though the mirth seemed clouded, the elation unsure. Even the feathers drooped in dumb-show despair.
“I think he wondered it, too. But he died before he discovered the truth. It’s all lost in the Codex, where no one can find it.”
“I wish I could have seen it,” he said, shaking his head. “A single page, even a sentence. What was he thinking?”
The mask looked away, and though the lips never parted, Giacinta seemed about to tell him something. Instead, she just walked to the window and said, “you’ll need your sleep. I won’t trouble you any longer. Good-night.”
He thanked her and spread out on the ottoman, using his coat as a makeshift blanket. And though his eyes burned and his legs ached, he tossed and turned for hours and failed to catch even the faintest wink of sleep.
