The Queen’s Library lies tucked away in the furthest reaches of the west wing of Herst Castle, where the noise of the world feels as one with the distant past contained within; its walls, a dark stone as old as the castle itself rise three floors, but have long since vanished behind the thick northern black oak shelves. Books—fat, thin, gilded, and well-read—stand proud in alphabetized ranks: political hither, philosophy thither, and histories of nations who thought themselves eternal mixed in throughout.
A rolling ladder of the same dignified wood stands at the ready; its thick brass tracks gleam slightly as it waits—a patient steward—to guide, to assist, the curious to a dimmer, dustier height, whether to the high shelves of the first two floors or the narrow gallery above, where the third-floor loft sulks in half shadow.
The semi-transparent cream-colored silk curtains—bound by a golden tassel tie-back—are pulled into their corners on a brass curtain rod, allowing natural light to spill in, falling softly upon the thick woolen rug that covers the center of the walnut-stained hardwood floor; the threads of gold sparkle in the light. Above, the gold sigil chandelier dangles from the ceiling by a matching chain—bereft of purpose by the natural light.
Beneath the window, a massive four-section leather sofa welcomes all who enter; its deep-maroon leather is drawn tight, held down by brass buttons sunk deep into the upholstered tufting; the thick brown wooden frame is held up by seven turned legs, each with matching brass caps. In the far corners sit two matching chairs, each with the company of a faithful, round side table.
Half hidden in an alcove, tucked away against the southern wall, waits a writing desk, as if grown from the shelves themselves, its drawers stocked with paper, fountain pens, and ink—all one needs to catch an idea that dares to break the silence of Her Majesty’s library.
The thick, brown doors swing inwards; the stagnant air and its scent of bibliosmia waft across the group and down the hall.
Entering first, ?nnywella places the butt of her cigarette into the wooden ashtray sitting on the side table in the south corner; she opens each segment of the large window that she can reach, feeling the crisp autumn air against her face as it floods in. She lights another cigarette and takes a seat in the leather chair in the south corner, allowing herself to settle, but something is off.
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Kolaus pulls the chair out from the writing desk; sitting down, he gathers everything he will need from the drawers and shelves.
Dyder shuts the door behind them with a click, choosing to wait in the hall—his father always said, "The less a guard knows, the better."
Kolaus turns to Gekaryna, resting his arm on the back of the chair. “Just something simple, I assume?” Having written enough letters for ?thalrykk Herst VI, he knows that the King's daughter—and student—would likely also have the affinity for brevity as well.
“Of course, something simple; they do not need to know more than the mere basics.” ?nnywella says. “Along the lines of: I wish to visit in the 12th maiden to discuss relations between our kingdom; I wish for a timely response as these matters are crucial to peace between us.”
Nodding, Kolaus turns back, charging the pen, he begins to write.
?nnywella sinks further into the soft leather chair; the scratch of the pen, the scent of tobacco curling around her; it feels just as it did before—those quiet evenings with Kolaus and her father, when she would accept the welcoming embrace of the sofa; the same stillness, the same warmth, weightless in the air—if only her father were not missing.
Placing the pen back into its stand, Kolaus clears his throat.
“Just a moment.” ?nnywella stands from the chair, bringing the ashtray with her; she moves to the sofa and places the ashtray on the windowsill, “My apologies, something just didn’t feel quite right. Please continue.” Kolaus reads the letter to her, “Excellent job, as always; I would expect nothing less.”
“I’m glad you are pleased,” Kolaus folds the letter; carefully sliding it into the envelope. Pulling a wax seal kit from one of the drawers, he wipes a thin layer of dust off the top and opens it.
“I can use my ring to heat the spoon; no need to set the heater up.” ?nnywella says, and Kolaus hands her a metal seal spoon, which she places on her sigil ring, quickly heating it up, before returning it to Kolaus.
After melting the tip of a wax stick into the spoon, Kolaus pours a small puddle on the seal flap; he passes the envelope to Gekaryna.
?nnywella slides her gold signet ring down her thumb, pressing it into the hot red wax, sealing the envelope; the seal takes, but wax overflows, curling up, smearing on the shoulder. She pulls her hand back, inspecting the ring under the bright sunlight; bits of red stick in the grooves, and she picks them out with a nail, the gold tip chipping—a small price to pay for the Herst family crest to shine again. Her father’s posthumous gift, an heirloom passed down from monarch to monarch since Tyes II, while it is ill-fitted for her slender fingers, far too large, having it resized was nothing short of blasphemous.
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