The Starless Sea

“You are really, really drunk right now.”

Zachary follows as Dorian continues telling the story, partly to him and partly to the room in general. Fortunes and Fables sits open on the desk next to the scotch. Zachary glances at it and sees that it is open to the story about the three swords, the illustration of an owl atop a pile of books on a tree stump covered in candles, the illustrator having ignored the part about the beehive.

“?‘A new king will come to take my place,’?” Dorian says behind him. “?‘Go ahead, it is your purpose.’?”

He holds out the glass and Zachary takes the opportunity to remove it from his hand, placing it on the desk out of harm’s way.

Zachary had secretly wanted another story time with Dorian but this is not what he’d had in mind. He stands and watches and listens, through the decapitation of the owl and the disintegrating crown and despite the peculiarities of the telling and the state of the storyteller it feels real, realer now than when he read the same words on the page. Like it all actually happened once upon a time.

“Then she woke, still in the chair by the fire in her library.”

Dorian punctuates the sentence by collapsing into his own chair by the fire. His head lolls against the back of the armchair and his eyes close and stay closed.

Zachary moves to check on him but as soon as he reaches the chair Dorian leans forward and continues as though the story had not paused at all.

“On the shelf where the sword had been there was a white-and-brown owl perched on the empty case.” Dorian points to a bookshelf behind Zachary and Zachary turns, expecting to see the owl and he does. Amongst the books there is a small painting of an owl with a golden crown hovering above its head.

“The owl remained with her for the rest of her days,” Dorian whispers into Zachary’s ear before he slumps back into the chair.

Even this intoxicated he’s a very good storyteller.

“Who is the Owl King, really?” Zachary asks after the post-story silence.

“Shhh,” Dorian replies, lifting a hand to Zachary’s mouth to shush him. “We can’t know that yet. When we know it will mean we’re at the end of the story.”

His fingers hang on Zachary’s lips for a moment before his hand falls, a moment that tastes of scotch and sweat and turning pages.

Dorian’s head rests on the tall back of the armchair and late-night drunken story time is over.

Zachary takes his cue to leave, pausing at the desk to pick up the almost empty glass of scotch. He drinks what remains, partly so Dorian won’t finish it himself if he wakes since he?

??s probably had enough but mostly because Zachary wants to taste what Dorian has been tasting. Smooth and smoky and a little bit melancholy.

Zachary closes the door as softly as he can, leaving Dorian mostly asleep and possibly dreaming in his chair by the fire in his personal corner of this not quite library, wishing there was a cat around to keep a watchful eye.

Zachary isn’t sure where he’s going even though his destination is set in his mind, or at least it had been when he’d left his room originally, how long ago was that? Story time has confused his sense of actual time. Maybe he wanted company.

When he reaches the Heart it is darker than he’s seen it before, only a few bulbs on the various chandeliers are lit.

The door to the Keeper’s office rests ajar. A slice of light falls into the darkened Heart.

Zachary can hear the voices from inside and it strikes him that he has never overheard a conversation in this place before, or thought that anyone could hear his own conversations for that matter, despite the endless corners and hallways and perfectly placed locations for eavesdropping.

He moves closer because it is the direction he was headed anyway, wondering if unintentional eavesdropping counts as eavesdropping.

“This isn’t going to work.” The Keeper’s voice is low and something is different about it. It has lost the formal edge that it has carried in all of Zachary’s conversations with him.

“You don’t know that,” Mirabel’s voice replies.

“Do you know differently?” the Keeper asks her.

“He has the book,” Mirabel says in response and the Keeper says something else but Zachary cannot hear the reply.

Zachary steps closer to the office, hidden in the shadows, actively listening now. He can see only a sliver of the office, a fragment of shelves and parts of books, the corner of the desk, the tail of the ginger cat. Shadows interrupt the light from the lamps, moving parts of the space from dark to light to dark again. He can make out the Keeper’s voice again.

“You should not have gone there,” he says. “You should not have gotten Allegra involved—”

“Allegra was already involved,” Mirabel interrupts. “Allegra’s been involved ever since she started closing off doors and possibilities along with them. We’re so close—”