Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

Without giving myself time to steady, I wrench it open, ecstatic when the knob actually turns. I rush inside and close the door behind me as quickly and as quietly as I can, my heart racing in my chest.

Phew, that was close.

Panting, I listen for a moment to make sure there are no shouts or hurried footsteps climbing up the stairs, but I hear nothing.

After waiting several seconds, I finally let out a breath of relief and turn to look around. I’m in some sort of empty antechamber, with pitiful light coming from a slitted window above the door. Unlike the rest of the castle, it’s plain and drab, without any embellishments whatsoever. It looks unused and also appears to be a connecting room for several passages to spit into. It’s also ridiculously cold.

Shivering beneath my coat, I cast another look at the door I rushed through. Even inside, with stone walls between us, I swear I can still feel Ravinger out there. How in the world did he know I was there?

The better question is, who was with him? That was Rip’s armor, Rip’s helmet, boots, posture, height, even his damn spikes, but it obviously wasn’t really him. This Fake Rip was too big to be Judd, too small to be Osrik. So who the hell was it?

Yet another trick, another deceit. My lips press together firmly, and I force myself to put him out of my mind.

Bright side? I got back inside the castle without any of the guards seeing me. Might as well make the most of it and start checking out the inside as well.

I make my way down the dreary antechamber, passing stone benches set against the walls. Why anyone would want to sit around in here is beyond me. I try to open a few doors, but each one is locked. No surprise there.

When I get to the last door—also locked—I unravel one of my ribbons and feed it through the crack between the floor and the door. It’s a bit like trying to do up laces alo

ng your back, so I close my eyes and go for feel alone as I direct my ribbon to reach for the lock on the other side. It wraps around the old iron deadbolt, and with a rusty creak, it turns open.

No sooner does my ribbon slip back to this side and re-wrap around me than I’m pulling the door open with another protesting squeak of disuse. I creep inside the dark space, just as a familiar smell hits my nose, and my eyes widen as I look around and realize where I am.

The royal library.

The smell of books, old parchment and ink bound in leather, makes a smile spread across my face.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, because it doesn’t look like there are any windows in here. The only lighting is coming from flickering sconces on the walls, but it’s not nearly enough to keep the shadows at bay. Especially with the looming shelves towering over me that stretch further than I can see, some of them covered in chains to keep the books from being removed. It’s about as inviting as a tomb in here.

Even though it’s not exactly picturesque, a thought occurs to me, and I look around with new eyes. This place is quiet, dark, and secret. It’s the perfect place to hide something.

With a new purpose in mind, I make my way down a row of shelves, careful to be as quiet as possible. I keep hold of my skirts so they don’t swish too loudly over the floor, thankful that the soles of my shoes are supple enough not to echo my steps. It’s so quiet that even my breaths sound loud.

Trying to move as silently as possible, I squint at the titles on the book spines I pass by. I note the requisite history of Fifth Kingdom, geography of Orea, tales of previous wars, genealogies of kings...boring, boring, boring. The more spines I read, the less I like my chances of finding any romances kept in this place.

But my trip isn’t a complete waste. My eyes flit to a shelf ahead, one half swallowed by the dark. It’s shorter than the others and covered in dust, looking like it hasn’t been touched or even looked at in years.

Perfect.

I look around, but the only thing nearby is a single sconce several feet away. Turning, I quickly tug off my glove, and reach into my dress pocket. I pull out three things one after the other: the apple I got from the kitchens, the stolen pipe from the guard, and the rag from the servant. Three innocuous, random items, all taken from different places, from different people. Things Midas won’t even know to miss.

As soon as my bare skin touches them, metallic liquid swarms from my palm. Each item is encased within seconds, their weight growing heavy as they turn solid gold. Looking up for a spot out of reach, I find two large tomes leaning against each other that make up the perfect little hidden nook. On tiptoes, I use my gloved hand to shove the rag and pipe between the books, hiding them from view.

Lowering myself back down, I slip the gold apple into my pocket, its weight heavy against my hip. I pull my glove back on and turn to leave, but a glint catches my eye on a lower shelf. I kneel down, swiping away a strip of dust, and my breath catches in my chest when a single word is uncovered.

Fae.

Beveled and black, imprinted into the leather beneath golden filigree, the word almost whispers to me, sending a chill down my spine.

There’s a chain strapped to the front of the shelf, but it’s drooping and loose. I glance around as if the shadows are watching me, but all is silent other than my thrumming pulse. Careful not to jostle the chains or leave tracks in the dust, I lift the small book out. The moment I hold it in my hands, my fingers tingle.

Barely longer than my palm, the cover is made of elderwood, with a delicate coating of red leather stitched around the tops of the boards, and thick thread pulled through the timeworn pages binds it.

For a moment, all I can do is stare at it. I have never, in all my time in Orea, seen a single book of the fae. To my knowledge, every piece of literature made by or about fae has been destroyed since the war. The only time fae are ever mentioned is in the history books, depicted as great betrayers and bloodthirsty murderers.

This book is forbidden. It should’ve been burned centuries ago, and yet here it is, stuffed between decrepit history books and rolled scrolls, on a dusty, chain-locked shelf.

Looking left and right again, I make sure I have no witnesses as I slip it beneath my coat and tuck it into the inside pocket against my chest. I stand up again, my heart pounding like stalking footsteps.