The library had always been Kat’s sanctuary, her prison, her entire world compressed into leather-bound pages and dust motes dancing in filtered sunlight.
It was a vast room, two stories tall with a gallery running along the upper level, accessible by a narrow spiral staircase tucked into the far corner.
The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with volumes that ranged from ancient tomes bound in cracked leather to newer books with gilt-edged pages that caught the light.
The smell was intoxicating—old paper and leather, dust and ink, with an underlying mustiness that spoke of centuries of accumulated knowledge slowly decaying in the humid climate of the southern territories.
Kat knew every inch of this room.
She knew which floorboards creaked, which shelves held the books on history versus philosophy versus natural sciences.
She knew that the third shelf from the top on the eastern wall held a complete collection of botanical illustrations that she’d memorized so thoroughly she could draw them from memory.
She knew that behind the large atlas on the bottom shelf near the door, there was a gap in the wood where she’d hidden a piece of honeycomb a kitchen maid had smuggled to her when she was twelve—the last act of kindness from a servant before her mother had dismissed the girl for “inappropriate familiarity with the cursed child.”
This room had been her world since she was seven years old.
She remembered the day they’d locked her in here.
She’d been playing in the gardens—something she wasn’t supposed to do, but she’d been so desperate to feel grass beneath her feet, to smell flowers instead of the stale air of her nursery.
Celeste had found her there, had screamed that Kat was “scaring the roses with her witch-hair,” and their mother had come running.
Lady Vivienne’s face had gone white with fury, and she’d dragged Kat inside by her hair, her fingers twisting in the red locks until Kat’s scalp burned.
“You will stay here,” her mother had hissed, shoving her into the library, “until you learn that you are not like other children.
You are marked, Katriana.
Cursed.
And cursed things do not get to play in gardens or walk in sunlight or pretend they belong in decent society.”
The door had slammed shut.
The lock had turned.
Kat had been seven years old, and she’d cried for three days before she’d finally accepted that no one was coming to let her out.
Eventually, a servant had brought her meals—left on a tray outside the door, knocked once, and departed before Kat could even glimpse their face.
Eventually, she’d been allowed to return to her room at night, though always under escort, always with stern warnings not to “wander where she didn’t belong.” But the library had become her designated place, the only room in the house where she was permitted to exist during daylight hours.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen years of living in this room, of reading every book on these shelves at least once, many of them multiple times.
Fifteen years of watching the world through that single window, of seeing seasons change in the gardens she’d never walk through again.
She’d made a life here, of sorts.
She had her routines.
She woke at dawn, dressed herself in whatever gray or brown dress had been left for her, and made her way to the library before the family stirred.
She read until her eyes ached, losing herself in stories of places she’d never see, people she’d never meet, lives she’d never live.
At midday, a tray would appear outside the door—usually bread and cheese, sometimes soup if she was lucky, never anything as fine as what the family ate.
She’d eat quickly, mechanically, and return to her books.
In the afternoon, she’d move to the window seat, to the one place where natural light was strong enough to read by without straining her eyes, and she’d stay there until the sun set and a servant came to escort her back to her small, cold room on the third floor.
It was a half-life.
A shadow existence.
But it was all she had.
She sat curled in the window seat now—the cushion worn thin from years of use, the fabric faded from sunlight—with her legs tucked beneath her and a book open in her lap.
A treatise on the northern territories, written by a scholar who’d traveled through the Shadow Marches fifty years ago.
She’d read it three times already, had memorized passages about the dark forests and the old stone circles, the people who still worshipped gods with names like Morwen and Thornyr, who marked the turning of seasons with fire and blood and ancient songs.
The north sounded wild.
Dangerous.
Free.
She traced her finger over an illustration of a standing stone carved with spirals and strange symbols, and wondered what it would be like to see such a thing in person, to touch stone that had stood for thousands of years, to stand in a place where the old gods were still remembered.
The dust motes danced in the afternoon sunlight, swirling in lazy patterns that reminded her of snow, though she’d only seen snow through this window, never felt it on her skin.
The light was golden, warm, deceptive in its gentleness.
Beyond the window, the gardens stretched out in their late summer glory—roses in full bloom, their petals ranging from white to deep crimson, the hedges trimmed into perfect geometric shapes, the gravel paths raked smooth.
She could see the fountain in the center, water sparkling as it cascaded down three tiers of carved marble.
She could see the bench where Celeste liked to sit with her suitors, positioned perfectly to show off her profile against a backdrop of climbing roses.
Kat had watched her sister’s courtships from this window.
Had seen the young men arrive in their fine clothes, had watched them walk with Celeste through the gardens, had seen them kiss her hand, her cheek, once even her lips when they thought no one was watching.
She’d watched Celeste’s life unfold like a story in a book, beautiful and distant and utterly unreachable.
She pressed her palm against the glass, feeling the warmth of the sun-heated pane, and tried not to think about how the window was just another barrier, just another wall in her prison.
The silence of the library was profound.
It was always silent here—no voices, no laughter, no sounds of life.
Just the occasional creak of old wood settling, the whisper of pages turning, the soft sound of her own breathing.
Sometimes she talked to herself just to hear a human voice, even if it was only her own.
Sometimes she read aloud, giving voice to the words on the page, pretending she was telling stories to an audience instead of to empty air and indifferent books.
She was so lost in the illustration, in her thoughts, in the familiar melancholy of her existence, that she didn’t hear the footsteps in the corridor outside.
The door opened without warning.
“Lady Katriana.”
The butler’s voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk.
Kat’s head snapped up, her heart immediately beginning to race.
Mr.
Pemberton stood in the doorway, his tall, thin frame as impeccable as always, his gray hair immaculately combed, his black suit without a single wrinkle.
He’d been with the family for thirty years, and he was the only person in this house who had ever shown Kat any kindness—small gestures, carefully hidden from the family.
An extra biscuit with her tea, a book left where she might find it, a gentle word when no one else was listening.
He looked at her now with concern in his eyes, though his expression remained professionally neutral.
“Your presence is required in the drawing room,” he continued, his tone making it clear that this was not a request.
“Immediately.”
Immediately.
That word landed in Kat’s chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of anxiety through her entire body.
Her fingers tightened on the book in her lap, clenching hard enough that her knuckles went white.
The leather binding creaked under the pressure.
Immediately.
That word never boded well.