The Hundred Loves of Juliet by Evelyn Skye

Author:Evelyn Skye [Skye, Evelyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Worlds
Published: 2023-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

HELENE

I wait for half an hour after I hear Sebastien go upstairs before I sneak back into the library. It’s too early to go to bed, and even if it weren’t, there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep, knowing his journals are there.

Am I snooping? Am I invading his privacy? Yes and yes. But my brain is already two steps ahead of me, rationalizing that (a) those shelves aren’t locked, (b) Sebastien let me go upstairs and didn’t put any limits on what I could explore, and (c) if those journals really do contain true stories about us, then it’s a shared history that belongs to both of us. Which means I have as much right to read them as he does.

Yes, I am the worst, and I know it.

But here I am anyway, at the foot of the library staircase. I’m using my phone as a flashlight, because I don’t want to turn on any of the lamps and broadcast what I’m up to.

My original plan was to go up, grab the journals, then bring them back to the sofas downstairs. But my ankle throbs—it turns out that tiptoeing is not good for a twisted ankle—and I can also picture myself trying to carry the tall stack of notebooks and tumbling down the stairs, not only making a ruckus but ruining all those carefully preserved diaries. Some of them are supposedly hundreds of years old and really ought to be in a museum, not manhandled by the likes of me.

So instead I grab a couple of the throw blankets on the couches, as well as an armful of pillows. I’ll make myself a cozy reading nest among the shelves, and that way I won’t have to transport the journals anywhere. I’m also less likely to get caught, since the sitting area downstairs is visible from the main corridor, but upstairs, I’ll be safely tucked away.

When I reach the second-floor landing, though, I freeze. Were those footsteps I just heard down the hall? I breathe as quietly as I can and try not to move. My elbow itches. Dammit. Don’t scratch it, don’t scratch it, don’t scratch it. If I try to scratch it, I’ll drop all the blankets and pillows.

I keep listening, and there’s nothing. Probably just my nerves conjuring up footsteps where there are none. I continue deeper into the library.

Sebastien’s journals are exactly where I left them, the temperature-control fan inside humming softly. I arrange my blankets and pillows, then open the glass door and take out all of the notebooks, stacking them neatly and carefully on the carpet. The leather is buttery soft, the edges of the oldest journals worn and well loved.

Once I’m settled in my reading nest, though, I just stare at the notebooks. I think I want to know what’s inside them…but do I really? This is the precipice either where I retreat and keep my perfect Story Sebastien safe in my head, or where I take a leap after Real Sebastien, without regard to whether I fall or fly.

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