Chapter 8

                                    

                                          
The library is glorious. All the other rooms in this castle make me feel resentful to the rich and their unnecessary use of space, but this one just takes my breath away.
Large bookcases line the room like a maze, dark stained wood reaching toward the ceiling. Plush armchairs and obscure paintings break up the sheer amount of books and add color to the space. There is no electricity in the room—it wasn't remodeled with the rest of the castle, Annalie said—so I rely on the small bits of orange glow that shine through the dome-like glass ceiling.
It doesn't take me long to realize the shelves aren't alphabetical but by genre. I have no idea what genre Tern Wittrel is, so I search for the W's in each individual section. It takes significantly longer as I go up each row, looking within the W's and failing to find the author in question each time.
My hands trail along the spines on the bottom of one bookshelf as I squint to read the names. The sun soon sets but the sky overhead still holds its last moments of light. Turvetski. Twain. Tyrell. Uruqaint. Viscur. Vor.
I shift to stand on my tiptoes, looking up to the top of the next bookshelf. I was never the man that kitchen servants asked to reach for spices in the top cupboard. I needed the ladder to fix loose boards in the stable loft. Warin used to hold his dishes over his head and make me jump for them. I am painfully aware that I am short.
But in my defense, this bookshelf is unrealistically tall.
I could see it two shelves out of reach, white letters stamped into a blue binding and almost glistening in the dimly lit library. Wittrel.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper.
"That's no way for a lady to talk."
I jump at the sound. I hadn't registered the preliminary creaking of footsteps as I hunted for Wittrel; I was used to old houses making sounds and servants crawling around every corner. I thought nothing of it.
The Prince's silhouette dances along the walls as he leans against one of the bookshelves. His pale skin stands out in the dark like the letters on Tern Wittrel's book.
"My lord." I curtsey, though when I look at my feet I roll my eyes.
"Am I no longer Prince Prat?" The Prince disappears around the corner for a moment, returning seconds later with his fingers through the handle of a lit candlestick. The waistcoat that he had at dinner is gone and he wears a partially unbuttoned black shirt. It shows more chest than that V-neck shirt from the day we met at the pub and I have to consciously focus on looking only at his face. I can't give him the satisfaction. The light helps me make out his small smirk and messy black hair; I think I preferred not being able to see.
"Noble General Prince Prat," I correct myself, curtsying again in a more mocking way.
"I already told you at the Ball—call me Rein." Not likely. "What brings you to the library so late?"
"My apologies, I didn't realize the library had a closing time."
The Prince — or Rein, because I suppose I can give in internally — shakes his head at me. "No closing time. Though I am used to having the library to myself in the evenings; it's my place to escape."
I picture what would happen if word spread that Rein frequents the library in the evening. Every single girl in the castle would find a reason to be here. The library would be just like the Queen's solar as they passive aggressively compete with each other to get his attention. He would never find peace in the library again. "Your evening escapades are safe with me."
"I appreciate that."
"Let me get my book and I'll be on my way, too. Lady Petra recommended Tern Wittrel."