"Fit to govern? No, not to live. O nation miserable, with such an untitled tyrant, bloody-sceptred!"

—From Macbeth,

By William Shakespeare

JOVANA STARED AT THE shelves of books as she waited for the librarian, Mr. Siward, to come out and greet her. She could hear the old man shuffling around with books and files and things, or whatever it was that librarians did. Jovana had never been able to sit still long enough to find out, as a child. Afterward, the library only reminded her that it had been her father's favourite place in the castle. Meanwhile, two cups of tea sat steaming in front of her, wisps and tendrils of vapour rising up delicately, only to vanish into thin air, moments later. She has asked him to meet him for tea after discovering the book with the strange handwriting in it, and after much reluctance, he had finally acquiesced.

Was he avoiding her? What reason would the man have to do so? Had Ilyas coerced him in some way and told him to stay silent or to reveal nothing to her? Did he know about her quest? Shaking her head, Jovana tried to focus on something else, on more pleasant matters. His tardiness could very well mean nothing more than the absentmindedness of an aged mind.

She wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. It had been her mother's and was a soft, faded shade of camel, made of nubbly wool. All of the upheavals of the past few days had caused her to become paranoid, suspecting everyone around her of conspiring with someone else. How could she safely trust anyone, with Alastair's sudden return from the land of the dead? It had shaken her entire life.

No—he had shaken her entire life. Alastair and his too-keen understanding, his piercing eyes, the arms that wrapped around her and foolishly made her believe she could be secure with him, even though she was not safe with anyone. Alastair Carlyle Durand had always been surprising. She thought back to those few days, that handful of moments in purgatory. After her mother's death and before the beginning of Jovana's life as she currently knew it.

"Ah, Your Majesty," Master Siward said, exiting a small back room with a door that looked to be made for children. However, his stooped back and small stature, which belied his spry movements, seemed suited to the size of the entryway. "How good of you to visit me! What kind of tea is this?"

"It is red tea, Master Siward." She felt strange to speak aloud in the library, when as a child she had so often been shushed for running through it too quickly or for speaking above a whisper. Thoughts of Mireille and their friendship no longer came with pain, but the past was not something she liked to dwell on either. "How are you faring today?"

He hummed a snippet of some lullaby that she had not heard since she was an infant in her mother's arms. Would today be nothing more than a journey into her most tender memories? Master Siward took a sip of tea, his silvery mustache bobbing up and down as he gulped. "I am well, thank you. Now, you needn't address me as Master anymore. I have known you since you were a babe on your father's knee, but now you are a woman. You may call me George."

"Very well then... George." The name tasted foreign on her tongue and she took a swallow of tea to wash it down. "I came to inquire after t a book."

"Oh? Would you like for me to fetch a certain volume or tome for you, Your Majesty?" he asked.

"There is no need. I have the book right here," she said, pulling it out from beneath her cloak. "A particular page concerns me. Do you see why?"

She spoke slowly, trying to infuse significance into every word when she turned it to the page she had been looking at yesterday. Would he understand her? What if he was a spy? What if there were spies in the library? Paranoia wrapped around her like a second skin, twining about her nerves and pulling them taut. She could feel her pulse in her throat as she waited for his response.

"Ah, I see," he said, nodding quickly. His brown eyes glittered in the shaft of sunlight that fell through the room's leaded glass windows onto the table. "I know the person who wrote that very well."

"Do you... agree with their view on the subject?" she said, leaning forward and placing her elbows on the carved mahogany table. Manners be damned, especially now. "Especially their perspective on the Lord Regent?"

"Well, I certainly think they make some salient points," he said, holding one gnarled finger over the page and highlighting the line, there are those who wonder what he did to gain such power. "I would count myself among one of those."

"Really?" she barely allowed herself to breathe the word, so uncertain as to whether this was true or not. Jovana felt the word exit her lips like a prayer, floating into the still, stagnant air of the room like a dust mote. "Do you truly?"

He coughed, a rasping noise that sounded as if it rattled in his chest. "I hope that would not place me in opposition to you, Your Majesty."

"Certainly not. Please, George, tell me more." Her green eyes widened as she listened, pressing a hand onto one leaf of the book to keep it from closing.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat sharply. In her excitement, she had not noticed that he had grown quite pale. "I..."

"George?" she asked, now leaning forward in concern. "Are you feeling unwell?"

He waved a hand. "Nothing more than the common ailments of an old man, Your Majesty. If you must know... I never did like Ilyas Durand. I always thought he was... never mind."

"No, please. I need to know." Desperation sank into her tone as she placed her palms flat on top of the book, feeling the roughness of the pages beneath her skin. "George."

Another cough exited his mouth, spraying spittle and blood-tinged droplets onto the handkerchief he held to his lips. "Your... Majesty..."

She stood up from the table, the chair knocking over in her haste. "George, I am summoning the royal physician to attend to you. I shall not accept any refusals."

Just as she went to inform the guard, her cup of tea was overturned and caused the ink on the pages to bleed into one another, erasing the traitorous, incendiary words that had been inscribed there. Master Siward gripped her hand. "Jovana... you cannot trust the king."

She stared into his eyes as blood ran from both his nostrils. Jovana flinched at the sight, trying to tug her hand free so that she could summon the doctor. But it seemed to be too late as his head dropped onto the table, and his blood soaked the pages along with the tea. Finally, she dropped his hand and screamed. "Help! The librarian is unwell."