After a few more beats, she could see a beam of light seeping through her eyelids. Tense, she waited. And when the light finally spilled over her, she knew there was no more pretense. No more hiding.
She opened her eyes, squinting up at the guard who stood before her. A middle-aged woman with long hair, dark as night with a few streaks of silver. Her skin was pale but radiant, and her face could have been one that Iris had seen many times before and forgotten save for her eyes. They were a startling shade of green. She was tall and slender beneath her navy guard’s uniform, but she carried no weapon. No gun or baton, only a metal torch, which she politely pointed downward.
Iris trembled as she waited for the woman to make her demands. She waited for what she expected—Who are you? You’re trespassing. You need to leave at once. Get out.
But those words never came.
“You’re hurt,” the woman said. “Let me help you.”
And when she extended her hand, Iris didn’t hesitate.
She accepted the help, and the woman drew her up off the floor.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Iris said. She was sitting in a worn leather chair in the museum office, and the woman—who had no name badge—was kneeling before her, preparing to draw the glass from her foot with a pair of tweezers.
“Sorry for what?”
“For trespassing after hours.”
The woman was quiet as she examined Iris’s foot. Her hands were cool and soft, but her knuckles were swollen. Iris wondered if she was in pain of her own until she said, “The museum is more than just a home for artifacts. In many ways, it’s a refuge. And you were right to come here if you were in need.”
Iris nodded. She was beginning to feel faint, looking at those tweezers.
The woman sensed it. “Close your eyes and lean your head back. This will be over before you know it.”
Iris did as the woman instructed, taking a deep breath. But the silence fueled her worries, and she found herself saying, “How long have you worked at the museum?”
“Not very long.”
“Are you from Oath?”
There was a plink of glass in a metal tin. Iris hadn’t even felt her pull it free.
“Not originally, no. But it’s my home now. I haven’t left in a long time.”
“Do you have any family here?” Iris asked next.
“No, it’s just me. I keep company with music.”
“You play any instruments?”
A long pause, followed by a slight tug. Iris winced as she felt a shard of glass pull free.
“I did once,” the woman replied. “But no longer.”
“Because of the chancellor’s decree?”
“Yes, and no. A man such as him couldn’t keep me from playing if I wanted to.”
That brought a smile to Iris’s face. It reminded her of Attie, drawing a bow across her violin in the basement. Refusing to give it up to the authorities when they came to confiscate all the other stringed instruments.
Another piece of glass was dislodged. This time it burned, and Iris hissed through her teeth.
“I’m almost finished,” the woman said. “Just a few more shards.”
Iris remained quiet this time, her eyes clenched shut and her head angled back. But she soaked in the sounds of the museum at night: there was a kettle boiling on the small cooker in the back room, another clink of glass pulling free, the woman’s steady breaths as she worked, and a reverent silence, woven through it all.
“Finished,” the woman said. “Let me bandage it for you.”
Iris opened her eyes. She had bled on the woman’s pants, but she didn’t seem to mind as she wrapped Iris’s foot in a swath of linen.
“And now for some tea.” She was up and moving to the cooker before Iris could blink, setting aside the tweezers and the tray full of shards.
Iris listened as she washed her hands in the sink, and soon the room was fragrant with the scent of lavender black tea and warm honey.
“Here you are.” The woman set a cup of tea in her hands. “Drink. It’ll help you sleep.”
“Thank you,” Iris replied. “But I should stay awake.”
“Have you never wondered what your dreams would be like if you fell asleep in a museum?”
Iris smiled. “No, I haven’t.”
“Then wonder. You’re safe here. Let yourself dream, if only to see where your mind will take you.”
Iris took a sip. Her mind was foggy now, and a sense of comfort and bliss began to steal over her, as if she was lying in the grass with summer sunshine on her face. She wondered if it was the tea, or if she was truly that weary.
The woman draped a blanket over her legs.
Iris drifted off into sleep before she knew it.
* * *
“Iris.”
She startled at the sound of her name. A sound like reeds in the wind. A rush of magic beneath a wardrobe door.
Iris opened her eyes. She was in the museum.
She took a step deeper into the foyer only to see she wasn’t alone. The night guard from before was with her, only she now wore a simple homespun dress and her feet were bare.
“Come with me,” she said, beckoning Iris to follow her into one of the rooms. “There is something I want to show you.”
Iris trailed her, surprised when the woman stopped in front of a glass display holding a sword.
“I’ve seen this before,” Iris said, admiring the shine of tempered steel and the inlay of small gemstones in the golden hilt. “I think I looked at this sword the last time I was at the museum.”
“Indeed,” the woman replied mirthfully. “When you broke into the museum to steal the First Alouette.”
Iris should have been afraid that the guard knew of her crime. But this woman didn’t inspire fear, and Iris only smiled. “Yes. You’re right. Why did you want to show it to me now?”
The woman directed her attention back to the sword. “This is an enchanted weapon. It was forged by an Underling divine and given to King Draven centuries ago when this land was ruled by one man, and he carried it with him in a battle against the gods. This blade has killed many divines in a time nearly forgotten.”
“But the plaque says it was only used for—”
“That is a lie.” The woman’s voice was firm, but not unkind. She met Iris’s gaze, and her bewitching green eyes were both angry and sad. “Many pieces of the past have been rewritten or lost. Forgotten. Think of all the books in the library with pages torn free.”
Iris was silent, but she could feel the weight of those words. She considered the sword again and asked, “What is it enchanted to do?”
“It cuts through bone and flesh like a knife does butter, if only its wielder offers the blade and the hilt a taste of their blood first. A sacrifice, to weaken yourself and wound your own hand before striking.” The woman turned and resumed her walking. “Come, there is more to see.”
Iris followed her through the museum, surprised when the walls suddenly became narrow and rocky. The air turned dank and cold, tasting like moss and rot. Firelight danced from iron sconces.
“I didn’t realize the museum had a place like this,” Iris said, ducking beneath a cobweb.
“It doesn’t,” the woman answered. “This is my husband’s domain.”
“Are we going to meet him?”