Chapter 27: The Summoning of Secrets

SIOBHAN

The flat was breathing.

Or at least that's how it felt, standing in the middle of our barely-contained jungle. Nimah had brought home so many plants over the years that the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the sweet tang of herbs. Green shadows danced in the low light, trailing across walls and hiding in corners, like they held some secret they were just dying to spill.

It should've been comforting. It had been comforting, once. But tonight, the leaves seemed to whisper with an urgency, rustling secrets I didn't want to hear. And Nimah, my ever-calm wife with her hands full of leaves and sunlight, was moving from plant to plant, talking in soft murmurs as if she were trying to reassure the entire room, not just herself.

On the table lay the books. Bran's books. Heavy, dust-covered, their ancient leather covers cracked and creased as if someone had tried and failed to unlock their secrets a hundred times over. 

He hadn't bothered to send a note, no scribbled guide to help us decode them. Just… books. Useless, cryptic books that felt like they were mocking me with every page we couldn't read.

I let out a slow breath, reminding myself that Maeve and I had agreed: after Isabelle and Ronan's wedding, we'd take a break. Maybe take a vacation somewhere peaceful. Just relax and unwind after months or even years of planning weddings non stop - especially after this one. But now? That time off felt like a distant memory of a plan. Because it was Maeve beside Ronan now, not Isabelle. And in this new, twisted reality, our "break" was being repurposed as a research marathon into whatever mysteries these books held.

I glanced over at Nimah, who was frowning over a page filled with tiny, intricate symbols that looked more like an elaborate prank than any language I'd ever seen.

"Bran is a certified jackass," I muttered, fingers digging into the edge of the table as I tried, once again, to make sense of the scratchy writing. "I mean, he couldn't have given us one hint? Just a quick 'by the way, here's what you're looking for?'"

Nimah glanced up, her face calm but her eyes restless, flicking between me and the book like she was trying to piece together something vital. "Maybe he didn't know himself," she replied, reaching for another book.

I huffed. "Or he just wanted to see us scramble around in circles while he did… whatever it is he's doing."

But my thoughts kept dragging back to my other brother, Ciaran. What was he doing? I still hadn't heard anything since his last message — a vague, practically useless text about a "potential lead" that might "change everything," and then… silence. 

My stomach tightened at the memory. It was a bitter cocktail of worry, frustration, and a resentment I hated myself for feeling. The message had felt like a promise — one I'd stupidly let myself believe. 

And now, what? Was he ignoring me? Had he run into trouble? Did he —

"Stop glaring at the book," Nimah said, her voice gentle. "It's not the book's fault."

"It's Ciaran's fault," I muttered. "For disappearing. For dropping breadcrumbs and then vanishing like he's on some grand adventure and I'm just… here."

The look Nimah gave me was one of those too patient, too understanding glances that only Nimah could manage. It was both infuriating and oddly grounding.

"I know you're worried," she said. "But we need to focus on what we can control."

Right. 

What we could control. I forced myself to take a breath, to shift my focus back to the books. Maybe if I glared hard enough, the words would start making sense. They didn't, of course, but I felt marginally better.

Nimah pulled one of the family Bibles from a nearby shelf, her fingers brushing over the cover in that reverent way she had with anything ancient.

 "I think," she started, "there might be something in here that links back to these." She nodded to the pile of Bran's books. "Old family stuff. Ciaran might not be here, but he showed us where to look."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, though it was a close call. The Coven library was not exactly a place I wanted to be tonight. But Nimah was right. It was all we had.

"Fine," I said, crossing my arms, feeling like a stubborn child even as I agreed. "But don't expect me to like it."

She smiled that gentle, infuriatingly understanding smile, then turned toward the door. She was half out the door when she turned back, her hands half-raised in an almost apologetic gesture. "Just… try not to kill the books while I'm gone?"

I managed a wry smile. "No promises."

Then she was gone, and the flat felt oddly empty, like the plants had sensed her absence and pulled back, becoming sullen shadows without her light.

I tried to push my mind back to the books, but my thoughts kept spiraling back to Ciaran, to that stupid message and the uncertainty it left behind. 

I wanted to be furious with him, but the anger kept getting tangled with something else — fear, maybe. I hated that he'd left me in this mess, hated that he'd left me wondering if he was okay, if he'd actually found something or if he'd just…

Stop it - I told myself, slamming a book shut with more force than necessary. I didn't want to think about Ciaran right now. I wanted to do something useful, to figure out whatever it was that Bran had thought he was so clever for sending us. I wanted —

A knock at the door interrupted my spiraling thoughts.

My heart jumped, the sudden sound jolting me back to the moment. I wasn't expecting anyone, and Nimah wouldn't knock. 

For a second, I hesitated, suspicion prickling at the back of my neck. But curiosity won out, and I crossed the room, peering through the peephole.

On the other side of the door stood a girl — frail, almost ghostly, with dark hair that fell over her shoulders like a curtain, half-hiding eyes that seemed too wide, too haunted. 

She looked like she might shatter if someone so much as whispered at her too harshly. Against my better judgment, something in me softened.

I cracked open the door. "Can I help you?"

She looked up at me, her expression a strange mix of desperation and determination. "Are you Siobhan?"

Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but there was something in it that made my skin prickle.

"Depends," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Who's asking?"

"I have information. About Maeve. Ciaran sent me."

The name hit me like a cold shock, the one steady drumbeat in the background of my mind finally crashing forward. 

Every page of Bran's dusty books, every cryptic symbol, every night I'd spent trying to decode the secrets they held — it had all been about Maeve, the unspoken fear that was itching at the edges of every thought. 

Even Ciaran's maddeningly vague hints, his silence — all of it had fed my worry, made it harder to shake the feeling that something was wrong, that Maeve was lost in something deep and dark.

And now, standing here in front of me, was someone who claimed to know something about her.

A dark part of me wanted to slam the door in her face, tell her to leave us alone, that Maeve was our concern and we didn't need anyone feeding us half-truths or rumors.

 But the look in her eyes was raw and desperate, like she was teetering on the edge of something terrifying, and for some reason, I couldn't ignore it.

"Alright," I said slowly, stepping aside to let her in. "But if you're lying to me, I'll know."

She nodded, stepping inside with a hesitant sort of grace, like she was half-expecting the plants to reach out and drag her down. I almost wanted to laugh, but the look in her eyes kept me serious. 

There was a pain there, something old and raw that I couldn't quite place. And, damn it, I hated that it made me feel anything.

"So," I finally said, " who are you and what do you know?"

"My name is Ariadne and I think I know what is happening to your sister."