I glare.
He pouts harder.
“You’re impossible,” I growl, and rip open the book.
Theron laughs and scoots a little closer to me. “Impossible, endearing. Synonyms, really.”
I mock-laugh and scan the indecipherable pages again, pain instantly pulsing through my head at the sight of all that black, swirling ink. “I’m trying to learn more about magic,” I start.
Theron gasps. “While reading a book called Magic in Primoria? No!”
“Impossible, endearing, hilarious. Also synonyms.”
“So you agree I’m endearing?”
I glare at him and open my mouth, only to find I have absolutely nothing to say. He smiles, waiting, and my gape becomes an incredulous snort.
“As I was saying,” I start again and Theron waves a hand in surrender to tell me he won’t interrupt. “I’m trying to learn more about magic. The Royal Conduits and where they came from and”—I run my fingers down the swirls of black ink—“and everything. Anything I can learn. Maybe there’s some loophole, something that means we could defeat Angra without needing our locket.”
As I talk, the amusement on Theron’s face fades, and he eyes the pages under my hands. “What have you learned so far?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know. This book is unreadable.” I flip to one of the passages I could actually make out—but just because I could read the words doesn’t mean they made any sense. “Like this, for instance. ‘From the lights, there came a great Decay; and woe was it unto those who had no light. They did beg, thus the lights were formed. The four did create the lights; and the four did create the lights.’” I slam my head back against the railing. “WHAT?”
Theron’s face stays serious. I recognize the expression as his “art” face, the same look he got when we were in his room and he was looking at the painting of Winter. Curious, focused, like the whole case of books behind him could fall over and he wouldn’t even flinch.
His lips move soundlessly, repeating the passage to himself. “Four? It said four twice?”
“Yeah.” I look back at the book. “The same thing twice too. ‘The four did create the lights; and the four did create the lights.’”
Theron nods. “The kingdoms of Primoria. Four and four. The Rhythms and the Seasons. They created something … resources? No, something magic-related. A metaphorical light? Perhaps the conduits? So light could be conduit.” He leans over the book and points at the passage, inserting his words as he goes. “From the conduits, there came a great Decay; and woe was it unto those who had no conduit. They did beg, thus the conduits were formed. The Rhythms did create the conduits; and the Seasons did create the conduits.”
He beams up at me but it flies away when he sees my glare. “What?”
“What?” I stab a finger at the passage. “I’ve been staring at that for three days and you come in here and figure it out in three seconds.”
Theron’s smile returns. “Told you I’m helpful.”
I will not give him the satisfaction of me smiling back. “What does it mean, though, O Wise Learned Prince? It still doesn’t make sense. A great Decay came from the conduits? But the Rhythms and Seasons created more conduits? But they only created the eight before the entrance vanished. So what, exactly, is the Decay, and why is it capitalized? A metaphorical decay, a literal decay …”
Theron leans back, arms resting on his knees, and stares at the library below. “That’s why literature is so fascinating. It’s always up for interpretation, and could be a hundred different things to a hundred different people. It’s never the same thing twice.”
I close the book with a groan. “I don’t need a hundred different interpretations. I need to read a book that says ‘Here’s how to defeat Spring and restore power to your king, and while you’re at it, here’s how to prove you matter when no one else thinks you do—’”
I stop. I’m staring at the bookshelves and not at Theron, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at him again without shriveling up from embarrassment. Which might make the whole marriage thing a bit awkward. I can still hear what I said hanging around me, my weak, weak admission, and I can’t bring myself to breathe, let alone face him.
Theron doesn’t give me a choice. He crawls up onto his knees and moves into my line of sight, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes darting over mine like he’s trying to figure me out the same way he figured out that passage. After a moment of silence, he grimaces.