A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,27

day in Hybern woke her. The limpid blue stone crowning the hood of Clotho’s robe flickered like a Siphon in the dim light as she slid a piece of parchment across the desk.

You can begin today by shelving books on Level Three. Take the ramp behind me to reach it. There will be a cart with the books, which are organized alphabetically by author. If there is no author, set them aside and ask for help at the end of your shift.

Nesta nodded. “When is the end of my shift?”

Using her wrists and the backs of her hands, Clotho pulled a small clock to herself. Pointed with a bulging knuckle to the six o’clock marker.

Five hours of work. Nesta could do that. “Fine.”

Clotho considered her again. Like she could see the churning, roaring sea inside her, that refused to leave her alone for so much as a moment, that refused to grant her a second of peace.

Nesta lowered her eyes to the desk. Forced herself to release a breath. But with its escape past her lips, that familiar weight swept in.

I am worthless and I am nothing, Nesta nearly said. She wasn’t sure why the words bubbled up, pressing on her lips to voice them. I hate everything that I am. And I am so, so tired. I am tired of wanting to be anywhere but in my own head.

She waited for Clotho to gesture, to do anything to say she’d heard the thoughts.

The priestess motioned to the library above and below. A silent dismissal.

Feet heavy, Nesta made her way to the sloping ramp.

The task was menial, but required enough concentration that time slipped away, her mind quieting to a blissful nothing.

No one approached Nesta as she hunted down sections and shelves, fingers skimming over the spines of books as she searched for the right place. There were at least three dozen priestesses who worked and researched and healed here, though it was nearly impossible to count them when they all wore the same pale robes and so many kept the hoods over their faces. The ones who’d left their hoods down had offered her tentative smiles.

This was their sanctuary, gifted to them by Rhysand. No one could enter without their permission.

Which meant they’d approved her presence, for whatever reason.

Nesta’s hands were near-withered with dust by the time a bell chimed six silvery peals throughout the cavernous library, ringing from its top levels down to the black pit. Some priestesses rose from where they worked at the desks and chairs on each level; some remained.

She found Clotho at the same desk. Did she ever lift her hood? She must, in order to bathe, but did she ever show anyone her face?

“I’m done for the day,” Nesta announced.

Clotho slid another note across the desk.

Thank you for your assistance. We will see you tomorrow.

“All right.” Nesta pocketed the note.

But Clotho held up a broken hand. Nesta watched with no shortage of awe as a fountain pen lifted above a piece of paper and began to write.

Wear clothes you don’t mind getting dusty. You’ll wreck that beautiful dress down here.

Nesta glanced to the gray gown she’d thrown on. “All right,” she repeated.

The pen began moving again, somehow spelled to connect with Clotho’s thoughts. It was nice to meet you, Nesta. Feyre speaks highly of you.

Nesta turned away. “No one likes a liar, Priestess.”

She could have sworn a breath of amusement fluttered from beneath the female’s hood.

Cassian didn’t come to dinner.

Nesta had stopped in her room only long enough to wash the dust from her hands and face, and then nearly sprinted upstairs, stomach growling.

The dining room had been empty. The place setting for one confirmed that she was in for a solitary meal.

She’d stared at the sunset-bathed city far below, the sole sounds her rustling dress and creaking chair.

Why was she surprised? She’d humiliated him at Windhaven. He was probably with his friends at the river house, ranting at them to find some other way to deal with her.

A plate of food appeared, dumped unceremoniously onto the place mat. Even the House hated her.

Nesta scowled at the red-stoned room. “Wine.”

None appeared. She lifted the glass before her. “Wine.”

Nothing. She tapped her nails on the table’s smooth surface. “Were you told to not give me wine?”

Talking to a house: a new low.

But as if in answer, the glass filled with water.

Nesta snarled toward the open archway at her back. “Funny.”

She surveyed the food: half a roast chicken seasoned with what smelled like rosemary and