Chapter Text
Agott counts her steps as they traverse the stone arch bridge. One boot in front of the other, sanding down the stones. Fourteen. Fifteen. Their color is the blanched white of a whale’s stippled belly, and the path is laid out across the frothing sea, ending at the sliver of horizon she can glean beyond the fringe of her curls. Sixteen.
She’s only walked this path once before, her mother at her back. Back then, she’d kept her gaze on the tower, examining its asymmetrical hull and needle-thin torso. She should have looked out at the water some more, the sparkle that accumulated where the sun touched the ocean, like a spill of glowsugar across the blue. She’d forgotten, in her haste to pass the gate, how to savor those things.
Now, as she’s escorted off the bridge (it had taken no time at all, and she’d counted two-hundred and fifty-two steps) she tries to focus on the coast’s sandy lip. She lifts her chin up – out of all the choices she lacks, this is the one thing she will always be able to do – and imagines the metallic shine of the knights’ spears flanking her sides is anything else: a wink of sunlight skipping over the water like a child’s playstone; the trunks of a pristine birch.
She read about the procedure. The librarians are usually left to their own materials, rarely disturbed by the knights, but she’d have thought herself inadequate if she hadn’t done minimal preliminary research. She’d been doubly studious the first few weeks of her apprenticeship, tucking volumes beneath her arms and flipping onionskin pages on her cramped knees, determined to become a master of knowledge while it was still impressive for her to know these trivial minutiae.
If the handbook she’d skimmed was anything to go by, she knows they will pass through a window-way into the knights’ office in the Great Hall. She will be seated at a crescent-shaped table and interrogated by only one of them, instead of a traditional jury. She supposes they don’t need more than one when their reputation is so fearsome. The interrogations can range from minutes to hours, and the time is dependent on her answers.
She’s well aware that after this incident, they won’t be interested in releasing her until she’s given them a satisfactory response.
She loathes the idea of contorting herself into the persona of a meek, uninformed witch after everything she’s done to become otherwise, but she’s made a promise and intends to keep it. The story forms in her head – yes, she hadn’t noticed a thing; her studies had kept her busy, and the tower was so expansive, sometimes she didn’t see another soul for days; no, she hadn’t felt anything unusual, what did that even entail in a magical library? What could she have noticed that trained masters hadn’t? Her masters weren’t so incompetent that such major discrepancies should evade them.
When Agott Arklaum takes the stand, she doesn’t say a single truthful thing.
The Tower of Tomes is maddeningly empty.
Despite her indifference towards the Great Hall, her transition to the tower’s echoing quiet isn’t seamless. She can’t undo the expectation within her that for every corner she turns she ought to slow down to avoid bumping into an errant apprentice. Months into her own apprenticeship, and she still maneuvers between shelves at a careful pace, constantly anticipating a disturbance that never comes.
Mornings are christened with warmups, circles and pin-straight lines to shake the dullness of sleep from her wrists. Her rooms are in the apartments protruding out of the main library, shrouded in curtains that glisten in waves of sheer, teal fabric. The library clearly had a formal structure before, but over the years developed odd, remote hallways and chambers with bottomless pits, a creature in its own right. The higher up one went, the less organized things became, and the older the tomes were.
Management of those areas went to the most experienced librarians, so perhaps there was a method to their practice, but each time she flew by those floors, she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the rank stench protruding from them. She could only believe that this was purposeful, because the Arklaums had always prided themselves on being refined. A porcelain house with pristine spellworkers couldn’t produce something like this with their combined efforts.
The smallest room in the library is the kitchen, and the food there is usually some leftover from centuries past, kept in a magicked pot. Agott opts for fruit. She works through a bowl of dates as she catalogues each new book into the enormous ledger situated on the first floor. The book lays open on a wooden stand, taller than Agott, spells stitched into its embossed leather cover. Some days are without many new entries, but a research study has recently concluded, and Agott finds herself organizing the resulting journals well into the afternoon.
By lunch, she’d taken one of them and found herself a corner to sit in. A baked cheese-and-steak sandwich lays wrapped in a napkin on her lap, and she takes small bites while reading up on the latest discovery in casting components. Flipping through the pages, dread curdles in her gut. The handwriting is atrocious, as most personal journals tend to be, which means she’ll have to rewrite it legibly.
I may as well get on with it. She drifts to the ground floor, wrapping up the remainder of her sandwich. As she prepares her materials – her plain inkwell and dotted parchment - she notices another journal has appeared on the newly-sanded shelf. Its cover marks it immediately as an outlier, made entirely out of scrap cloth stitched together into a garish quilt.
Agott removes it from the shelf, frowning. It’s a mess, and a poor choice in cover material, but she can’t help but silently admire the excellent needlework. Maybe a seamstress’ logs?
The first page has a spell written on it that feels faintly familiar – she recognizes the signs of repetition at its rim. On the second, a singular word encompasses the entire page:
Hello!
Agott lets out a huff of air. What?
Her fingers drift over the neat script. She blinks, drawing back when her hand comes up wet. Ink smears beneath her nails.
Beneath the initial greeting, strokes appear, eventually forming the words, is this working?
Agott shakes herself out of her stupor. She’s known that the books update in real-time, but the thought of someone attempting to communicate to her through them has never occurred to her.
Somewhat amused and wholly curious, Agott lowers the book next to the journal and dips her quill in ink.
It is. What are you trying to do?
Droplets of ink appear underneath the It, the recipient's pen dripping erronously as they think of an adequate response. Agott wipes it away with her thumb.
It worked!
Did you think it wouldn’t?
I’ve never tried something like this before. They draw a smiley face, and Agott snorts. While she waits for them to finish their thought, she idly flips through the other pages of the clothbound book. There are more spells, ones she knows, but they’re all so...trivial. Spells to make starlike patterns appear on your ceiling, spells for folding paper into the shapes of various animals, spells to keep fragrances trapped eternally in a bottle. Not proper, useful magic, but a collection of whims.
It’s good to know that it works, the other person says after a moment. Are you a librarian?
Apprentice.
Then you must be...Agott, right?
A flicker of pride, deep in her chest. It's nice to be recognized as the sole pick for apprentice. Yes, that would be me. And you?
I’m a witch, like you.
I could tell, Agott writes, though her dryness is less receptive on paper. I meant, your name and house, if you’re from one. You are an apprentice, if I’m not mistaken?
A long pause, but this time the witch on the other end has learnt their lesson and keeps their quill from the paper. Yes, I am. But you wouldn’t know my house.
I’m confident I could guess.
You wouldn't. Another smiley face, which is somehow the most aggravating and endearing thing Agott’s ever seen put to paper. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be seeing you soon, anyway.
Are you attempting the test?
Something like that.
They’re frustratingly vague, but at least this confirms that they must be around Agott’s age. I don’t administer the test, though. You likely won’t see me at all.
What do you do during the test?
I’m not involved, Agott explains. The gentle scratching of her pen strokes fill the vacant space. It might be one of my aunts who tests you. A thought occurs to her, prickly. Were you hoping to sway the proctor with this little stunt?
No! It’s written hastily, and the ink on their end smears. I wouldn’t do something like that.
Then why bother with this trick? Is there a record you want? If you pass the test, you can visit the library without a hinderance.
Another long pause. That’s true, they say, another one of their tentative answers. What’s it like being an apprentice of the tower?
Fulfilling, Agott settles on. You’re never lacking in work, at least.
Or books to read, they add.
Never, Agott agrees. It’s more than she could read in a hundred lifetimes, not that she doesn’t try. There are days where she’s spent so much time bent over a book that her eyes begin to swim with dizziness. Speaking of such, do you intend to use this book for sketching spells? If not, I’ll categorize this in miscellaneous.
Well, the spells are just there so that this counts as a book about magic, the other admits. Or else it wouldn’t appear in the tower at all, and I wouldn’t be able to speak with you.
Is that all this is? A means to communicate?
Is that so bad?
It’s pointless when you could just take the test.
You sure are interested in the test, they muse.
And you’re suspiciously disinterested.
I’ll come to the tower on my own terms, they say. You’ll be there, right?
Agott’s eyebrows furrow. Of course I will. But what do you mean, your own terms? There’s no alternative routes into the tower.
Alright, then! It’s settled. I’ll see you soon, Agott!
Another damn smiley-face. Agott grits her teeth and sets her quill to paper again, prepared to admonish them for entertaining the foolish idea of sneaking into the tower, but after a moment, it’s clear the witch has left their end of the book. Agott writes a couple lines of discouragement – you can’t get in that way and why make it more difficult for yourself? - before feeling a flush of embarrassment.
She has a bevy of tasks today, and she’s already wasted time dispensing advice on a hollow ear. Instead of cataloguing the book like procedure calls for, she stuffs it in her cloak’s inner pockets.
If this witch, whoever they are, makes their plans more clear in the future – foolish as they are – Agott will be the first to report them. Of course, she can just report them now, but it’s likely they won’t even proceed past the first obstacle in challenging the tower. Like the other assailants before them, they would narrowly escape with their life and decide thereafter to do things the right way. All rebellious paths eventually led miscreants to an acceptance of propriety.
She comforts herself in those rules and addresses the chicken-scratch journal before her, heaving a low sigh. She hadn’t lied in saying that there was never a lack of work.
The quiet strokes of her quill fill the room, louder than the sound of her own breathing.
The stranger-witch is a number of things. An irritant is one apt descriptor.
You know, my master’s always said that you have to eat well to perform well, they put in, after Agott divulges that she’s eating poached mountain apples for breakfast. I’ll make you mountain apple pie when I visit. It’s really yummy.
Agott arches an eyebrow. That counts as a meal?
It’s the most important meal of all – dessert.
Whether I perform well or not is none of your concern. But I think I’d like the pie.
What’s your favorite color?
What kind of question is that? Agott asks, exasperated.
The question, Agott! You can tell a lot about a person from their favorite color.
Okay, then. What’s yours?
I really like yellow. We had a lot of yellow flowers in my old village. But white is so ethereal, especially snow! The blue stream near our atelier is pretty, too. My master drinks a lot of thornbark tea, I like the color it makes when it’s mixed with milk. It’s kind of brown-ish, but golden under the light.
Agott lowers her head into the book and swallows a laugh. You have to pick one, you know.
Why won’t you tell me your name?
I said I’d tell you when I come to the tower.
Agott rolls her eyes. In a millennium, then.
It won’t take that long. I’m just preparing.
For the test, I hope.
I kind of forgot about that, actually.
Are you serious?
The other witch underlines the serious and writes a resounding, shameless Yes! next to it. Agott groans.
What’s that supposed to be?
It’s a drawing of the trees near my atelier, the other witch says.
It looks like a grove of scarecrows.
You aren’t wrong. It almost sounds sheepish. Oh, I forgot to add the animals.
Even though she’s got better things to do, Agott watches as the other witch draws life into their picture, quill blotting ink into smeared visages of twitching rabbits and long-limbed deer. It’s been a considerable amount of time she’s seen these animals, or any animals beyond the feckless birds that make their nests on the hollow crooks of the tower.
There are more skilled illustrations of them in any of the library’s numerous encyclopedias, hundreds of compendiums about all manner of animals just within her reach, but she stays in her wool-lined stoop, crouched over the wrinkled cloth-bound journal.
The Witch’s Guide to Magical Sourdough Starter. The Three Wise – a Collective History, Vol 6. Casting Components of the New Age, Third Edition. Today’s yield is an unrelated assortment of books, which Agott lugs between the cataloguing table and their designated shelves. She’s carrying a leaflet on Noz’s floating stalactite caves when something moves in the corner of her eye.
A hopping velvet bag. It leaps over the stone floor, emitting a blistering, welcome warmth from beyond the drawstring. Agott stares at it, confused and mildly annoyed. It keeps jumping over the same spot, erratically smacking against smooth floor, clearly waiting for her to abandon her duties to chase it.
The bag dribbles up a nearby flight of stairs. Agott eyes her sylph-shoes – the tower is structured in rings, each floor dedicated to a set of thick shelves, so she prefers to fly. There’s a chance she could lose it that way, though, so she bounds up the stairs, tailing it with as much speed as she can muster. About three flights up, she realizes her mistake. The bag has no intention of getting off at a reasonable floor.
When they’ve reached the seventh floor, she opts for jumping in bursts of flight to reserve her energy. The bag remains quick as a wit, slapping on the chipped limestone steps, leaving fading spots of warmth in its wake. Whenever she becomes too tired to continue, it waits for her to gather up her breath, eyeing her heaving, huddled form inquisitively. Its interest in her exhaustion is irritating enough, so she wipes the sweat off her brow and motions for it to go on.
After what feels like an age, the corridor narrows, and windows begin to appear on the right side. They’re climbing a turret, going in tight spirals around a central stone column. Agott’s knees burn, and she’s starting to regret leaving her more worthwhile duties to pursue this enchanted bag, but she has an inkling she can’t ignore. The journal in her inner pocket scrapes against her torso, its pages flattened each time she loses her balance and stumbles into a wall.
The bag makes a sharp turn. Agott slows, the way she used to in the Great Hall.
Sitting against an open window is a young girl around her age. She’s nestled on the edge, hands propped on either side of the rim, a dress of wrinkled black silk spilling from her waist. A salt-scented wind pours around her shoulders and open fingers, combing through her seagrass hair. The bag makes one final jump into her lap, and she gives the drawstring an affectionate pull. Her eyes, green as spring, meet Agott’s.
“Agott!” she greets.
“You,” she grits out, breathless.
The witch rises from her seated position by the window, the dress unfurling properly, like the petals of a pitch colored flower. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.” She lays a hand on her chest. “I’m Coco.”
“How did you get in here?” Agott asks, disregarding the name. “The windows are enchanted. And the creature, you couldn’t have bypassed him.”
Coco tilts her head, her short hair curling at its ends from the seaside humidity. “I didn’t see any creature. Unless you mean the birds.”
"Don’t play dumb. I don’t know what you did, but it’s a violation of the rules to enter without having completed the test.”
She empties the contents of the drawstring bag into her hand, cupping a handful of seed. Several birds flock to her hands, pecking at the glossy feed. She remains statuesque until they’ve had their fill, waving as they disperse across the ocean. “You were saying?”
“This isn’t funny,” Agott snaps. “If you’re so skilled with magic, why not just take the test? There’s a specialized method for a reason.”
“I wasn’t interested in taking it,” Coco admits, stroking the velvet bag with two fingers. She tucks it into a pocket in her dress, the seam invisible on the black fabric. “I don’t have to take the test to speak with you, do I?”
Agott bites her tongue. Any other apprentice would have told Coco that it would be more prudent to speak with the experienced librarians. “What did you want to ask me that you couldn’t ask through the book?”
“I don’t want to ask you anything. At least, not right now.”
Redness fills Agott’s cheeks. “I’ll report you.”
Coco grins. “You could. But you should catch me first, so you have proof an intruder was here.”
“Catch you - hey!”
Coco is surprisingly fast, even in her tangled dress. She levitates over the steps, going much faster than typical sylph shoes should have taken her. Agott curses, scrambling behind her. She’s already tired from the trek up the turret, but Coco is boundless, carried by an invisible wind. She soars out of Agott’s sight, her laughter airy and excited.
What’s she got to be so thrilled about?
Agott stumbles up the final stretch of stairs, her dark curls plastered to her neck. The room is devoid of shelves or thick rugs, completely empty but for the uneven stone bricks that make up its circular floor. The ceiling is made of glass, and sunlight cascades through the crystalline frame, pouring droplets of rain onto the tepid floor. Coco is nowhere to be found, though there’s no sign of damage to the handcrafted glass.
In the middle of the room is a slip of paper, weighed down by the magical bag. Agott lifts it with a hesitant pinch of her fingers.
A spell, with the sigil for light in its center - the source of the heat she’d felt earlier. It pulses in her hand with residual magic, sparks of light shooting from its center, brushing against her cheek like a swarm of gentle fireflies. Coco’s mark, she thinks. A spell so simple that any apprentice could have learned it within a minute.
She claims it as evidence, slipping it into her cloak, and the warmth doesn’t fade the whole trip down.