Darkness, it turns out, is about as dark as usual no matter what world you’re in. The invisible
steps beneath the trapdoor—the same ones I’d stumbled and climbed and half-fallen my way down
so many times before—were every bit as invisible as they’d ever been.
And the Lunae Libri?
Nothing had changed about the moss-covered, rocky passageways that led us there. The long
rows of ancient books, scrolls, and parchments were hauntingly familiar. Torches still threw
unsteady flickering shadows across the stacks.
The Caster Library looked the same as always, even though now I was far, far away from
every living Caster.
Especially the one I loved most.
I grabbed a torch from the wall, waving it in front of me. “It’s all so real.”
My mom nodded. “It’s exactly as I remember it.” She touched my shoulder. “A good memory.
I loved this place.”
“Me too.” This was the only place that had offered me any hope when Lena and I faced the
hopeless situation of her Sixteenth Moon. I looked back at my mom, half-hidden in the shadows.
“You never told me, Mom. I didn’t know anything about you being a Keeper. I didn’t know
anything about this whole side of your life.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry. But you’re here now, and I can show you everything.” She took
my hand. “Finally.”
We made our way into the darkness of the stacks, with only the torch between us. “Now, I’m
no reference librarian, but I know my way around these stacks. On to the scrolls.” She looked at
me sideways. “I hope you never touched any of these. Not without gloves.”
“Yeah. I got that down, the first time I burned all my skin off.” I grinned. It was strange to be
here with my mom, but now that I was, I could tell the Lunae Libri had been every bit hers, as
much as it was Marian’s.
She grinned back. “I guess that’s not a problem anymore.”
I shrugged. “Guess not.”
She pointed to the nearest shelf, her eyes bright. It was good to see my mom back in her
natural habitat.
She reached for a scroll. “C, as in crossing.”
After what seemed like hours, we had made zero headway.
I groaned. “Can’t you just tell me how to do this? Why do I have to look it up for myself?” We
were surrounded by piles of scrolls, stacked all around us on the stone table at the very center of
the Lunae Libri.
Even my mom seemed frustrated. “I already told you. I just imagine where I want to go, and
I’m there. If that doesn’t work for you, then I don’t know how to help you. Your soul isn’t the
same as mine, especially not since it was fractured. You need help, and that’s what books are for.”
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t what books are for—visitations from the dead.” I glared at her. “At
least, that’s not what Mrs. English would say.”
“You never know. Books are around for lots of reasons. As is Mrs. English.” She yanked
another stack of scrolls into her lap. “Here. What about this one?” She pulled open a dusty scroll,
smoothing it with her hands. “It’s not a Cast. It’s more like a meditation. To help your mind focus,
as if you were a monk.”
“I’m not a monk. And I’m not any good at meditating.”
“Clearly. But it wouldn’t hurt you to try. Come on, focus. Listen.”
She leaned over the parchment scroll, reading aloud. I read along over her shoulder.
“In death, lie.
In living, cry.
Carry me home
to remember
to be remembered.”
The words hovered in the air, like a strange silvery bubble. I reached out to touch them, but
they faded out of sight as quickly as they had appeared.
I looked at my mom. “Did you see that?”
My mom nodded. “Casts are different in this world.”
“Why isn’t it working?”
“Try it in the original Latin. Here. Read it for yourself.” She held the paper closer to the torch,
and I leaned toward the light.
My voice shook as I said the words.
“Mortuus, iace.
Vivus, fle.
Ducite me domum
ut meminissem
ut in memoria tenear.”
I closed my eyes, but all I could think about was how far I was from Lena. How her curling
black hair twisted in the Caster breeze. How the green and the gold flecks lit her eyes, as bright and
dark as she was.
How I’d probably never see her again.
“Oh, come on, EW.”
I opened my eyes. “It’s no use.”
“Concentrate.”
“I’m concentrating.”
“You’re not,” she said. “Don’t think about where you are now. Don’t think about what you’ve
lost—not the water tower or anything that came after it. Keep your head in the game.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if you were, you wouldn’t be standing here. You would be halfway home, with one
foot back in Gatlin.”
Would I? It was hard to imagine.
“Close your eyes.”
I closed them obediently.
“Repeat what I say,” she whispered.
In the silence, I heard her words inside my mind, like she was speaking aloud to me.
We were Kelting, my mother and I. In death, from the grave, in a faraway world. It seemed
familiar between us, something from long ago, something we had lost.
Carry me home.
Carry me home, I said.
Ducite me domum.
Ducite me domum, I said.
To remember.
Ut meminissem, I said.
And be remembered.
Ut in memoria tenear, I said.
You remember, my son.
I remember, I said.
You will remember.
I will always remember, I said.
I am the one, I said.
You will—
I will—
Remember…
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