Born of Earth: An Elemental Origins Novel (The Elemental Origins Series Book 3) by A.L. Knorr

Author:A.L. Knorr [Knorr, A.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Intellectually Promiscuous Press
Published: 2017-02-28T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The library in the Sheehan house has a feeling of political conversations long past, of readers once toasting their feet in front of the fireplace, with kerosene lamps or perhaps candles on side tables lighting their pages. Bookcases lined with volumes sit between each window as well as either side of the fireplace. Furniture that belongs in an antique store is clustered around the fireplace, and an old snooker table sits beneath an oil painting of my grandparents. A huge old bible sits on an antique wooden pulpit in the corner gathering an impressive layer of dust. A variety of black and white photographs, pressed flowers, framed newspaper clippings, and drawings grace the walls. The Sheehan family tree, drawn by hand probably a half-century ago, hangs over the fireplace.

I went straight to the bookcase Jasher had directed me to, and opened the glass cabinet doors. A long row of spines without titles faced me. The books were all different sizes, and colors, and some were in various states of decay. I chose a random spine, pulled it out, and opened it.

The first image I saw was of a fine-boned yellow faerie with gossamer wings. His limbs were curled over his body and he wore a sleepy expression. The image was beautifully rendered. It was clearly done in Jasher's hand. Every page was filled with a portrait of a freshly hatched faerie, their wings looking damp, their faces sleepy.

The sound of wind picked up and the light coming through the windows dimmed as clouds shifted to cover the sun. I put Jasher’s sketchbook back and inspected the row. The books on the right side looked so old they were spotted and stained by dust, the spines were cracked and the edges frayed. I took another from the middle of the shelf.

My jaw went slack. It too was filled with portraits of fae, but done by a different artist. The inside cover was dated 1943. This artwork was done in watercolor, and the work was not as masterful as Jasher’s. I flipped to the front of the book, searching for the name of the artist. The name Syracuse Sheehan was there, scratched in a messy scrawl. Syracuse was my great-grandad and had passed long before I’d been born. I replaced the book and took another, older one.

I opened it gingerly, and the pages were soft with age. The date on the inside cover was 1928. The artwork here was again different, and done by a monster talent. I flipped to the front page, looking for a name. It was there: Mailís Stiobhard. I’d never heard the name before. Her work was done in pencil only, no color had been added. The shading was so masterful and soft that it seemed early morning sunlight dusted the features of each fae. I took the sketchbook to the sofa near the fireplace and sat down with it open on my lap. I turned through each page, swept away by the beauty of the drawings. Gooseflesh crawled over my scalp.

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