CHAPTER 59 – Innocence and Experience

Across the week that followed Saphienne gave very little thought to the practicalities of magic, throwing herself into what she had learned from Faylar by seeking other activities that would clear and sharpen her mind. Apart from a conversation with Gaeleath – to be recounted another time – she merely spent half an afternoon compiling her notes and then putting them away, though where she could safely leave them gave her pause. She didn’t trust her mother with her belongings.

She asked Filaurel where would be best. The librarian smiled. “I think a library is the appropriate place to keep writing, wouldn’t you agree?”

To Saphienne’s amazement, Filaurel presented her with a key to the front desk, cut days before, and emptied books she had not yet added to the library from one of the deep drawers to make room. Together with the key to the door Saphienne had already received, she would be free to lock away and retrieve whatever she wanted, whenever she needed.

“But,” Saphienne asked her, hesitating, “do you have a spare key?”

“The same key unlocks all the drawers. The same two keys, now.”

“…You’re trusting me with everything inside?”

Filaurel smiled and stepped away from her desk. “So long as you grant me one small amusement — and rummage through it right now, in front of me.”

At first, she hesitated; Saphienne wondered whether Filaurel was teaching her a lesson in privacy. Her mentor would be able to see whatever she kept, and so the librarian’s belongings deserved as much respect as her own–

“Well? Go on.”

Then she realised what was actually being shared, and grinned as she started unlocking the beautifully inlaid drawers to rifle through their contents. The vast majority contained nothing surprising, or particularly interesting, though she lifted out the tome Filaurel used for communicating with other libraries and – with no objection from her mentor – made a show of flicking through its pages.

“…Filaurel…”

“Saphienne?”

“…Do librarians just bicker and flirt?”

“Most people do, yes.”

The only shock came when Saphienne unlocked the drawer in the upper-right side, finding it held something that struck her as impertinent, even contrary to Filaurel’s chosen art: a jar of crystallised, sugary sweets.

Which Filaurel opened as Saphienne stared, sucking on one of the golden ovals as she offered her another.

When Saphienne recovered her voice, she was scandalised.“…Filaurel.”

“Saphienne?”

“You told us we weren’t allowed to bring–”

“Young children aren’t allowed food or drinks in the library,” Filaurel interrupted, quietening Saphienne by popping the butterscotch into her open mouth, “or they leave sticky fingerprints and spills everywhere. I’m very particular about which older children and adults are granted the privilege — such as when I let you and your friends take dinner by the windows.”

Pushing the sweet into her cheek, Saphienne put her hands on her hips. “You told us we still weren’t allowed snacks!”

“You’re not. You’re not allowed to throw books, either.” She gave the apprentice her most dazzling smile. “But she who enforces the rules need not be bound by them. Who shushes the librarian?”

Being hidden from the public made Filaurel’s hypocrisy taste all the sweeter.

* * *

Faylar and Saphienne kept up their study of the common trade tongue, switching their practice to early mornings. Saphienne spent the remaining time before noon working on sculpture – finally trying her hand against wood, with dismal results – and then did whatever caught her fancy for the rest of the day. Often she would end up back in the library, engaged in further stilted conversation with Faylar, who spent as much time correcting her pronunciation as he did responding to what she had tried to say.

Most afternoons, they met Laewyn when she was done in the bakery, then together joined Celaena for conversation at the teahouse; both apprentices to the wizard still wore their robes when out and about. Saphienne had hoped to see Iolas there at first, but Thessa explained he was very hard at work writing his essay for Almon, intending to get it out of the way so that he could relax.

“What about you?” the artist asked, her gaze on her sketching of the couch where Laewyn and Celaena were sat together.

Saphienne swallowed her tea, in the mood to playfight. Her deliberately pompous reply emulated her master. “I’m preparing. A wizard must not be buffeted about by the demands of the world. Great art needs patience to emerge — how much more so, when it concerns the Great Art?”

She had hoped Thessa would mock her for being pretentious, but the older girl took her entirely sincerely. “I know what you mean. I spend a lot of my time sitting, feeling through what I see in front of me. Most of my paintings are what I choose to leave out. I guess writing is much the same — it’s the lines you don’t write down, that matter most.”

“…Well, I’m glad to hear that,” Saphienne managed, blushing furiously, “because I don’t have any to write. Not yet.”

* * *

Yet for all that she tried very hard to distract herself, there was still much that demanded her attention.

Halfway through the week, on a tempest of an afternoon when Faylar preferred to stay in the library rather than walk to the teahouse, Saphienne left him downstairs – where Filaurel was chatting with him in the common trade tongue – and went to browse the upper collection. The adult floor was peaceful, few patrons visiting due to the weather. She browsed listlessly through the stacks without seeing anything she felt like rereading, the new holding no appeal. Elves were always reading or writing, their books joining their local libraries before spreading throughout the woodlands… but that wasn’t to say all would spread, or that every book was worth her time.

Especially since the preponderance of what they wrote was–

Saphienne paused beside the row devoted to romance. Not merely romance: many of the most popular books contained very little description of love and bonding, which wasn’t to say there weren’t some tales of elven bondage. Those were the stories that had turned her away, when she had first been indirectly permitted to read adult literature by Filaurel.

Even more common than their ubiquitous pastimes of writing or reading, a frequent refrain among elves to their children – which they took pleasure in repeating – was that they were all part of a very long tradition. In a literal sense, that tradition was the ancient ways, though more generally they referred to the cultural inheritance that the elder generations shared with the newer. Filaurel had taught her one such inheritance, telling her that reading what she wasn’t supposed to was a rite of passage…

“…For anyone with a decent mind.” Saphienne smiled to herself, belatedly understanding the dual pun that Filaurel had been making. To be indecent was to go naked before an inappropriate audience; Saphienne had borrowed ‘The Principles of Elven Anatomy’ in innocent curiosity about nudity; and a decent mind was clothed by what one read, in more ways than one.

She glanced about herself. There was no one nearby, yet she still hesitated before walking between the shelves, keen not to be found by Faylar in the same way she had stumbled upon him. Her eyes trailed over the spines until she located a title that she remembered, and she slipped it from the shelf before hurrying out, descending the stairs, and vanishing into the supply closet.

* * *

Two years can change much about a person. To children, such a short time can be more transformative than even the most potent Transmutation spell.

All Saphienne did in the privacy of that closet was read. Yet what she read no longer overwhelmed her like it once had — and though her eyes were wide, they were more comfortable contemplating what was before her than when she had stolen a lingering look at Gaeleath’s latest sculpture. She found herself far more interested by what she pictured than what was depicted, for she was unconsciously reading subjects behind the lines of text that contours of hard stone could not permit, no matter how softly contrived.

She took longer to finish the book than she usually would, but still read quickly enough that she was shut away for less than two hours. While she was bashful when she pressed her long ear to the door and then peered outside, and while she hurried to climb the stairs two at a time, she was also deeply thoughtful.

Faylar had returned to reading at his table. She made no effort to be stealthy as she went by, walking with purpose and ease, deliberately keeping the book on the other side of herself so that he wouldn’t see. He didn’t even hear her — absorbed by the page.

She returned the book to its place by a circuitous route, sighing with relief when she backtracked out of the far end of the row…

Then she paused.

Saphienne turned to face the matter that, until then, she had felt entirely unprepared to face — and realised as she did that she was not so much of a child as she had once been. The advice of her friends was still foremost in her mind, and she knew she wasn’t ready for all the heartaches she augured to come, not least because she still couldn’t see herself with anyone she knew or saw about the village; she had never felt attracted to another elf.

But…

Saphienne decided she would, from that day forward, quietly borrow books from that section whenever she found opportunity. She took one down there and then, and went out the way she had arrived, passing by a completely oblivious Faylar as she headed downstairs to her shared desk.

She sat the book before Filaurel without a word.

Who nodded absently, set aside her scrivening, and took out the borrowing ledger before she reviewed–

“I see.” Her lips were pressed together as she opened it, skimming the description of the story written within the back cover.

Though utterly scarlet from her toes to the tips of her ears, Saphienne defiantly kept her gaze on her mentor.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Filaurel glanced up, and the librarian couldn’t help but smile as she avoided Saphienne’s green gaze, instead recording the details of the loan. The abbreviated name she wrote was a fig leaf, but Saphienne still felt like the pair of mismatched syllables stood out painfully from the rest.

“Thank you for continuing as I asked.” Filaurel slid the book across to her. “You may record your own withdrawals and returns in future.”

Murmuring her thanks, Saphienne secreted the volume in her satchel, feeling claustrophobic as she turned toward the door.

“Saphienne?”

She glanced back.

Filaurel was re-banding her hair, which fell sheer and earthy about her before she gathered it back up, but her attention remained on Saphienne. “If anything you read ever confuses or upsets you, please remember: I’ve read every book in this library.” She inclined her head. “Should you have questions — or need context. You can always leave me a note in the desk…”

But Saphienne said nothing, could say nothing, and pressed out into the downpour, Hyacinth’s final riddle repeating behind the glittering sheets.

* * *

Needing to cool off, Saphienne went for a stroll through the woods. As the rain eased she told herself she was seeking some wild hyacinths she could replant — busied herself by planning ahead for when she would next need to speak with her bloomkith friend. Given all the time and effort Almon devoted to maintaining his garden, she didn’t want to keep surreptitiously harvesting his plants whenever she wanted Hyacinth’s company.