Page 14 of The Midnight King
Their voices fade behind me, since I can’t linger any longer without them suspecting me of eavesdropping. Hesitantly I approach a maid who is dusting one of the portraits.
“I was just dancing with His Royal Highness, and he mentioned a biography of Eshlin Asok,” I say. “I’m a great lover of books and music, so I thought I might do a little reading before I meet him in the garden later. But this place is so big—I can’t remember which way he told me to go to find the library.”
Her eyes light up with interest. With a few strategic sentences and key details, I’ve established myself in her mind as a favorite of the Prince. No doubt she will spread gossip to that effect, which could allow me a bit more freedom in the palace.
“Of course, love.” She leads me to the open door at the end of the gallery. “You want to turn right here, go to the next hall, and take a left. The library is through the big doors on the right side, with the dragons engraved on them. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” My heart pounds faster as I hurry away, following her guidance.
Though I didn’t have access to a full education, I can read quicklyandretain the information—skills that will serve me well once I find the books I’m looking for. Being so close to the resources I need is a thrilling accomplishment. I can nearly taste freedom.
I pause before a pair of gigantic doors, each boasting two intertwined dragons carved from the gleaming black wood. One of them is already ajar. If I weren’t wearing such a decadent gown, I could slip through easily. As it is, I have to push the door a bit wider to enter. Its hinges groan faintly, and the sound echoes in the space beyond.
Cautiously I creep in, my heart thumping in my throat, my eyes wide with worshipful awe.
The library is a dark cavern of books, uplit by the soft glow of frosted electric bulbs. To my left, pale moonlight shines in from the garden through a pair of arched windows. The glowtouches the curled white petals of winter roses, two huge bouquets of them overflowing from large urns.
I tear my gaze away from the moonlight and the flowers, refocusing on the layout of the library, a rectangular room divided by rows of bookshelves. Along the wall behind the bookshelves I glimpse alcoves with cushioned benches—nooks where readers might find refuge.
I move deeper into the room, looking for another door that might conceal a vault of prized books. But parts of the library are heavily shadowed, and there’s so much tall furniture it’s difficult to get good sightlines. I’ll have to do a thorough exploration of every nook and cranny, even the alcoves and the darkened areas.
All the dancing has made my lungs ache, and I’m finding it difficult to get a deep breath. I pause and bend over, sucking in air until I finally get a whole breath, all the way to the bottom of my lungs. It’s an inexpressible relief.
I havegotto quit sleeping next to a coal bin.
I walk between two rows of bookshelves toward the far wall, the one with all the reading nooks. Each nook has a light set within it, overhanging the bench seat. In some alcoves, the light is on, even though no one is reading there. It seems like a waste of electrical power. At Eisling House, we use electricity sparingly.
But it’s none of my business whether the palace wastes money or not. I simply need to find the vault.
“Where are you?” I mutter, pacing down the aisle, swishing aside the curtain of a reading nook. A cursory inspection shows no sign of a concealed door, so I move on to the next alcove, whose light is on, with the curtain partly drawn.
I see the boots a second too late, as I’m already drawing back the curtain. Black leather boots, finely crafted, crossed at the ankles. Not a speck of mud on them. The boots belong to a man who’s reclining in the alcove with his feet up, reading a book.
“I beg your pardon,” I gasp. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
The man smiles at me. He’s not young, but he’s undeniably handsome, with black brows, ice-gray eyes, and a mane of wavy silver hair. His square chin and angular jaw frame the most perfect mouth I’ve ever seen—exquisite lips crafted for kissing, surrounded by a short scruff of dark beard, neatly trimmed. His clothes aren’t overtly luxurious—a simple pair of black pants and a loose white shirt that shows part of his well-cut chest. There’s a warm elegance and a regal charm about him that doesn’t come through in his portraits, making him even more appealing in person.
This is the King himself. I just yanked back the curtain and disturbed the King’s private reading session.
“Your Majesty,” I exclaim, dropping into a curtsy.
He dismisses the formality with a wave of his hand. “No need for all that.” His voice has a deep, soothing resonance. I notice his fingers—thick, masculine, adorned with heavy rings. “Who are you looking for?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Earlier, you said, ‘Where are you?’ Are you searching for someone?”
“Oh… not exactly. I… well… I was looking for a book.” My gaze descends to the volume lying open on his lap. One page contains text, and the opposite page features a detailed drawing of a naked man fucking a nude woman against a tree.
Swallowing hard, I glance at the King, who makes no move to hide the image or close the book. His silver eyes narrow, crinkling at the corners as he gives me an amused smile.
“Ever read a book like this?” he asks.
A wicked heat rushes through my body, and in a moment of impulsive daring, I decide to tell him the truth. “A woman of good breeding should say no, but… yes.”
His smile broadens. “I respect your honesty.”
“I should say, I’ve only read short stories of that kind,” I confess. “Never an entire book.”