Children Of The Sky (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 2)

Chapter 2

Lillian wished she had more patience. And energy. And a heart more capable of dealing with her sister-in-law's grief and how it was driving her spirit to the ground no matter how much she or Noah did. He'd come into the library earlier, quiet and gentle in his movements as he held Lillian's three-week-old nephew. But his expression had been set like stone as he carefully put little Leo in her arms, the baby's face pudgy and peaceful as he stirred in his blanket, made a small sound, and went on sleeping.

"Is she drinking again?" Lillian had asked softly. Noah only gave her a dark look and walked away.

Lillian curled herself in a chair and buried her nose in a book about anatomy after that, Leo tucked in her arms, his little hands curled against his chest. He'd been born small, a consequence of poor nutrition over a good deal of Kariana's pregnancy, but he was healthy. Lillian didn't know how long that'd last if Kariana kept up her habit with whiskey.

The sunlight slanted through the windows after a while, catching the dust in the air and turning it to specks of gold, drawing out the rich honey-colored tones in the wood of the floor and the many bookshelves set in rows. They were tall, so tall they nearly touched the vaulted ceilings, and they were ancient, made of dark bellroot wood from the southern swamps. Two-thirds of them had been empty when Lillian first walked in six months ago, a few weeks after Agnir's assassination, when Nyle had been swamped in work and her grief had been too heavy to bear. It was in the pages of many of these books, now, driven into the words she'd read, soaked into the spines and covers. Nyle had caught her, once or twice, and looked at the many hollow bookcases. Countless volumes from the depths of the vault had started coming in the next day, books on medicine and art and stories and architecture that Agnir had hidden away from the world as an advantage. Lillian was only beginning to truly realize how deep the oppression had been driven, that Agnir had stolen the people's culture and knowledge from them, generation after generation. Scholars were few and far between, but she'd run into several recently, noses buried in books, their eyes wide and startled when they were snapped unexpectedly out of their concentration by her presence.

Nyle still didn't come around as often as she would've liked, but they'd made a pact after the first month of nearly constant separation: they'd ignore court and politics at least once a week and take an evening somewhere by themselves, wandering the streets, or the countryside, or having dinner by the river. Lillian treasured those nights, when they'd dance in the starlight or get lost on purpose, not caring who saw them out or what the council might say. It made her sad, too, listening to his voice get more wistful every time, like an animal slowly, slowly realizing its cage was inescapable. Power was his prison. He'd said it a hundred times over. And it was a responsibility he couldn't lay down, couldn't shift to someone else, not really. Blood was blood. He was stuck, and they both hated it. The one comfort Lillian allowed herself was the knowledge that there would be a good man on the throne when the time came for his coronation.

Leo made a small sound, almost crying, and Lillian pulled herself from the far reaches of her mind and back to the heavy silence of the library, the stiffness of her legs, the baby in her arms. The book had slipped halfway from her fingers and onto his blanket, words skimmed but not read, yellow pages musty with age. With a sigh, Lillian leaned over to set it on the table, then unfurled her legs and stood. Leo yawned, and she smiled at him, tucking the blanket away from his chin as he stared up at her, that drowsy look melting her heart.

"You're devastatingly cute, you know," she whispered, touching his soft cheek with one finger. He blinked and reached out with both hands, latching on to her thumb and her pinkie. She laughed a little, tapping his small nose, and made her way out of the library.

The halls still felt wrong as she walked them, alone for the most part, her slippers making her steps quiet. There was death in the stones, sweat and blood and the pain of those who'd built it. Agnir had killed more than two thousand men with exhaustion raising these walls, the story went, but it'd been done in mere months. It felt disrespectful, having lost so much in her own life, yet walking through these hallways without a word for the losses of Agnir's subjects.