The library took up an entire floor of the Manor, its monstrosity slightly overwhelming. Shelves were lined up in snaking aisles, stacked floor-to-ceiling with books. Navigating through it was rather like exploring a labyrinth.
Michael paid no attention to Maxon as he pushed open the oak doors with both hands, and stood in front of the very first shelf, scanning the shelves with his eyes. His forehead was crinkled, and he looked deep in thought. Maxon stood by his side waiting patiently, but eventually unable to bear the silence, he asked, “What are you looking for?”
Looking at him with a sideways glance, Michael parted his lips, about to reply, but seemed to think the better of it. Instead, he turned his attention back to the shelf. Not finding what he was looking for, he went on to the next shelf.
Maxon sighed. What could he be looking for? Judging from the serious expression on his face, it had to be something important. And something he couldn’t ask anyone about. But if Michael wouldn’t tell him, then he wouldn’t ask.
As they moved forward to the next shelf, a thought struck Maxon. Information on Lemuel?
And why not?
Maxon frowned, trying to think of where he had last seen a book related to Lemuel. Not wanting to disturb Michael, he tiptoed to the left wing of the library, where he knew the books about the Marked themselves were.
Those books were yellowing and old; so old that the lettering on the spine of every book had long since faded. Maxon pulled out a book at random. He could just make out the words on the cover; they appeared scrawled on hastily, bits and pieces of the title falling out as he ran his hand over it, then wiped the black flakes off his pants.
The Future of the Plein Lies in Your Hands, the book read.
Maxon sighed. No, not this one, he decided, reaching for the next book.
The Plein Through Mankind, the second one read.
No, not that either.
By the time he had scoured the entire shelf, the books were stacked in neat piles at his side. He heard footsteps, and glanced up to see Michael beside him, a laugh bubbling on the edges of his lips. “What were you doing?” Michael asked.
“Trying to help you find information on Lemuel,” Maxon answered, messing his hair up in frustration.
“Unsuccessfully,” Michael finished.
“Same as you.”
Michael looked down at his empty hands, and amusement lit up his face. For the first time in a long, long time, he laughed. His deep laughter filled the silent room with sound—a very welcome one that Maxon was glad to hear. Relaxing, he joined in the laughter.
“I didn’t say I was looking for anything on Lemuel.”
“Well, you didn’t say anything,” Maxon observed. “I deduced.”
Michael only laughed again, and together they moved to the shelf behind. The first one that Michael pulled out was one that said, in big bold letters, The Legions. He exhaled and sank to the floor, flipping the pages with fervor.
Maxon lowered himself down to the floor too, watching Michael thoughtfully.
Reaching the end of the book and finding nothing there, Michael tipped his head up and shut his eyes, making a noise of exasperation.
“You’re going to take all day.”
“I know, I know.” Michael groaned. “You know what? Help me.”
Ah, at last. “How?”
“I’m looking for information on myself.” For a millisecond, a flicker of shame crossed Michael eyes.
Maxon pursed his lips in understanding. He nodded, and without asking further, got up to his feet and began searching.
A moment later, there was a shadow at his side, and there Michael was, crouched down beside him. The two shared a knowing grin, and continued on their search.
Hours and hours of piled-up books later, they were both exhausted and left with one last book. “Last one for the day,” Michael said. “If I can’t find anything, I’m off.” He flipped to the first page.
“But Michael…” Maxon hesitated.
“What?”
“What made you want to find out?” he asked.
“Lemuel,” Michael replied. “You should know. I hate him so much, I’ll do anything I can to find out I’m not like him. That he was lying; that whatever he told me was a lie.” His expression was twisted; scornful, as he continued flicking through the book.
Finding nothing there, he tossed it aside, not caring much for neatness anymore. He stalked off towards the West wing of the library, one that had not been explored by them because it mainly contained books by the Marked—about their fantasies regarding the world in general. Not much of it was true. The West wing did contain a shortcut though; hidden behind one of the false walls was an entrance to the main hallway that led to Michael’s room.
In the middle of that aisle was a lone book, plain and dreary and black with age, its cover hidden by a greying sheen of dust. Michael bent down to pick it up, and then straightened, trying to look for a gap in the shelf to place the book in. Finding none, he turned back and walked towards Maxon, who was standing a distance away. “I can’t find its place,” he said, brushing the dust off the cover and squinting at it. “And there’s no title.”
“Well, I can add it to that pile of books.” Maxon gestured to one of the huge stacks of books they’d piled up earlier. He looked at the book oddly. “Or you could read it first.”
Michael nodded, and flipped the book open. Scanning through the first few pages, something caught his eye. Maxon shuffled over to him. “What does it say?”
The Marked have a long and complicated history. Dating back to the B.C. 1500, where the first evidence of a member of the Marked was found, the population has since grown to expand all over the world. In the beginning, there existed three different types of Marked people—the Plein, the Legions, and the Magix.
Michael sucked in a deep, sudden breath, pointing a shaky finger at the last line. “What’s that?”
“So there weren’t only the Plein and the Legions in the past,” Maxon muttered. “The Countess… she hasn’t ever mentioned it.”
“Why?” Michael asked. “Why didn’t she?” His eyes wore a haunted expression that Maxon could not comprehend. Why was he so upset about it?
Michael lifted his hand off the next page, fingers shaking like a leaf.
The only distinguishable features of these three types are their Marks. No two Marks are the same, but the general form they take on is always identical. The Plein have a pattern of swirls on their palm, while the Legions have three slashes, much like claw marks, on the inside of their lower arm. The Magix have swirling, delicate Marks that start from the bottom of their—”
This time, it was Maxon who drew in a deep breath. Comprehension of the entire situation hit him like a gust of cold wind. “It… Someone tore the page off.”
The book shook in Michael’s hands, and his face was pale; white as a sheet. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“What’s wrong, Michael?”
When he got no response out of him, Maxon stepped closer and shook his shoulders firmly. “Stop it,” he said. “Snap out of it, now.”
The shaking stopped, and Michael’s expression calmed into not one of panic, but one of sheer fury and frustration. “Someone’s seen this before.”
“Oh. Yes,” Maxon began. “But what was written there, it must mean that you… Lemuel… you’re one of the—” He was cut off mid-sentence.
“You know what?” Michael’s eyes blazed, anger boiling and bubbling in his blue orbs. The whites of his fingers, clenched around the spine of the book, were almost translucent. “I don’t even want to know anymore.”
And he slammed the book down with all his might. It hit the floor with a loud thud.
Without a backward glance, he turned and walked out of the main entrance of the library instead, leaving behind a flurry of dark emotion.