The Book with Her Name
Delmaria Winternacht had been lost for exactly twelve minutes when she decided that admitting it would be humiliating. At eight years old, this was not a conclusion born from reason. It was born from pride. The Winternachts were not the sort of family whose daughters wandered away from an inspection party because they saw a white fox disappearing between the trees, and more importantly, Aiden and Leith would never let her live it down.
Delmy stood beneath an arch of black-barked trees and glared at the path behind her as though it had personally betrayed her. It had been there. She was certain. A narrow deer trail had curved around a moss-covered stone, leading back toward the old summer manor where her parents were meeting with the territorial magistrate. Delmy had followed the fox for perhaps three minutes. Four at most. She had turned around, and the path had vanished.
“Stupid forest.”
The forest offered no apology.
Late afternoon light filtered through the canopy in strips of muted gold. The Winternacht territory was famous for forests like this — ancient woodland stretching over low mountains and deep valleys, threaded through with ley lines strong enough that even ordinary people sometimes claimed the trees whispered. Delmy had always liked that story. She liked it considerably less now.
She pressed both hands against the front of her green traveling dress and breathed carefully through her nose. Mother would be worried. Father would call half the household guard. Her brothers, ten years old and therefore apparently experts in everything, would announce that they had always known she would eventually get herself eaten by a magical beast.
Absolutely not. She was going back before anyone noticed.
Delmy lifted one hand. The soil beneath her boots stirred. She closed her eyes. Earth magic was easiest when she stopped trying to force it — that was what Master Erwen always said. Fire obeyed command. Water followed intention. Earth listened.
Delmy hated that. Listening was vague. Aiden could summon flame onto his palm whenever he pleased, and Leith could manipulate water with enough precision to pull moisture directly from morning fog. Delmy asked the ground for directions and received dirt.
Still, she tried.
“Where did I come from?”
Nothing.
Her brow furrowed. “Please?”
A small root broke through the soil. Delmy’s eyes opened. The root curled toward the left.
“There.” She brightened immediately.
Then another root emerged, curling right. A third pointed directly behind her. Delmy stared at them.
“You are all useless.”
The roots slowly withdrew.
“Don’t be offended.” One stayed above ground. Delmy sighed. “I’m sorry.”
It disappeared. She really did have the most temperamental affinity in the family.
She continued downhill, telling herself that eventually she would reach a road, a stream, a boundary marker — something. Instead, five minutes later, she found a door.
Not a building. A door.
It stood upright between two enormous trees. Delmy stopped. The frame appeared to have been carved directly from black stone, although vines crawled along its edges as though it had been standing there for centuries. No wall extended from either side. Behind it was simply more forest. The door itself was dark wood, and there was no handle.
Delmy approached cautiously. This was precisely the kind of thing governesses warned children not to touch. Strange doors. Unidentified magical objects. Anything glowing, anything whispering, anything offering candy without possessing visible hands. Delmy knew the rules. She was a duke’s daughter. She had been educated. She was sensible.
The fox appeared beside the door.
Delmy froze. It sat neatly upon its haunches, white tail curled around its paws, and its eyes were green. Not pale green. Not hazel. The exact color of Delmy’s own.
“Oh.” The fox tilted its head. “You.” It blinked.
Delmy folded her arms. “You are why I’m lost.”
The fox stood and stepped toward the door. There was still no handle. It swung inward anyway.
Delmy stared. Beyond it was not forest. Beyond it was darkness — and then lamps flickered to life. One. Two. Ten. Hundreds. Rows of golden lights stretched farther than Delmy could see, and between them: bookshelves. Thousands upon thousands of bookshelves.
Delmy forgot every lesson she had ever received concerning strange magical doors. The fox walked inside.
“Wait.” She followed.
The moment her boot crossed the threshold, the forest vanished. The door closed behind her without a sound. Delmy spun. There was only a wall.
“No.” She pressed both hands against it. Stone. Solid stone. Her heart slammed once against her ribs. “No, no, no.” She searched for a seam. Nothing.
The fox continued down the corridor. Delmy whipped around. “You come back here.”
It did not.
“Fox!” Her voice disappeared into the cavernous room.
Calling it a library would have been ridiculous. Libraries had walls. Libraries had ceilings. Delmy could see neither. Shelves rose upward into shadow, connected by narrow staircases and iron bridges. Some floated independently through the air. Others rearranged themselves when she wasn’t looking directly at them, sliding silently along tracks she couldn’t see. Books hovered between aisles. Pages turned themselves. Some shelves were filled with scrolls, others with crystal tablets, and one entire section appeared to contain nothing but small wooden boxes, each labeled with a year.
Delmy slowly forgot to panic.
“Oh.” She had visited the Imperial Library once. It had seemed enormous. This place made it look like a cupboard.
The fox waited beside the first intersection. Delmy approached.
“Where are we?”
It turned left.
“You could answer me.”
The fox’s ears flicked. Delmy followed — she had no better plan. Their footsteps, hers anyway, echoed faintly through the aisles as she began reading titles.
THE FOUNDING OF THE FIRST IMPERIAL COURT. She knew that one, or at least the event.
THE GREAT WESTERN FLOODS: A FIRSTHAND ACCOUNT. Also real.
THE ELEVEN-DAY REIGN OF EMPEROR CASPIAN IV.
Delmy frowned. There had never been an Emperor Caspian IV. She moved closer. The spine looked old. She reached for it, and the book snapped backward into the shelf.
Delmy recoiled. “Rude.”
Another shelf slid between them. She glared at it. “This entire place is rude.”
The fox sneezed.
Delmy narrowed her eyes. “Was that laughter?”
It walked faster. They passed increasingly strange sections — HISTORIES THAT NEARLY WERE, WARS ABANDONED BEFORE DECLARATION, CHILDREN WHO MIGHT HAVE BEEN KINGS, DISCOVERIES MADE TOO EARLY — and Delmy’s steps slowed. One shelf held hundreds of books bearing the same title.
THE FALL OF ASHELWAN.
Each had a different date beneath it. Delmy stopped entirely. The nearest volume read YEAR 719. Another read YEAR 861. Another, YEAR 912. She knew the current year. Eight hundred and ninety-four.
Delmy backed away. This was not a library. Not exactly.
The fox was waiting again. For the first time, she did not immediately follow.
“Am I supposed to be here?”
Its tail moved once.
“That is not an answer.”
The fox turned. Something appeared behind it — a book, resting alone upon a black pedestal. Delmy stared. Unlike nearly everything else in the archive, it was plain. Dark green leather. No ornamentation. No gold. No jewels. Only letters pressed into the cover.
She took one step forward. Then another. The title became readable, and Delmy stopped breathing.
THE LIFE AND CRIMES OF DELMARIA WINTERNACHT
She stood very still. Then she laughed. It came out small and uncertain.
“That’s not funny.”
The fox sat.
Delmy looked around. “Who did this?” Nothing answered. She approached the pedestal. Her name remained. Not Delmaria alone. Not some historical Winternacht relative. Her full name. Her fingers hovered over the cover. She did not touch it.
“This is a trick.” Silence. “Probably Aiden.”
That was impossible. Aiden could barely keep a secret through breakfast.
“Leith?”
Even less likely. Her brothers were talented. They were not create-an-impossible-library-inside-a-forest talented.
Delmy swallowed. She opened the book.
The first page contained a portrait. Her portrait. Older — perhaps eighteen or nineteen — wearing Barugan Academy’s formal black-and-gold uniform, which she recognized because both her brothers had spent the previous month arguing over whether they would attend Barugan or enter private Imperial Mage Corps preparation instead. The woman in the picture had Delmy’s face. Her curls were longer. Her expression was cold. Beautiful, Delmy thought immediately, and then felt embarrassed by the thought.
Underneath the portrait:
Lady Delmaria Winternacht, only daughter of Duke Evander Winternacht, would become one of the most infamous noblewomen of her generation.
Delmy’s mouth fell open. “Infamous?”
She turned the page aggressively, expecting nonsense. Instead:
Born in Year 886, Delmaria displayed an early affinity for earth-aspected magic, particularly botanical and beast resonance. Though considered respectable, her abilities were frequently overshadowed by the exceptional talents of her elder twin brothers, Aiden and Leith Winternacht.
Her stomach tightened. She turned another page. Her childhood. Her tutors. Her first familiar. The time she broke Mother’s jade hairpin and blamed one of the cats.
Delmy shut the book. “No.” Nobody knew that. The cat had been blamed successfully.
She opened it again. The next chapter was titled:
THE WINTERNACHT HEIRESS AND LORD AMAN FIORELLO
Delmy grimaced. She knew Aman Fiorello existed. Technically. Their families had arranged their betrothal before either of them could walk. She had never met him — he lived primarily in the capital, and his family sent gifts twice a year. Last Wintermas he had sent her a collection of pressed flowers from the southern provinces. Delmy had liked those.
She skimmed.
Despite the longstanding arrangement between their families, Delmaria and Aman did not properly become acquainted until their academy years. Contemporary accounts describe Lady Winternacht’s attachment as intense, possessive, and increasingly unstable.
Delmy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
She read faster. Jealousy. Arguments. Public scenes. Delmy tormenting other girls. Delmy sabotaging classmates. Delmy threatening anyone who became too close to Aman.
“What?”
The girl in the book sounded horrible. Spoiled. Cruel. Pathetic.
Delmy flipped ahead. A name appeared repeatedly.
Poppy Rose.
A common-born light mage. A late entrant to Barugan. Beloved by students. Potential Saintess.
Delmy hated her. Apparently. She stared at the page. “I don’t even know her.” The book did not care.
She continued. According to the text, Poppy’s arrival changed everything. She became friends with several prominent heirs, Aman included, and Delmy’s behavior worsened. Rumors spread. Accusations followed. Then Delmy reached the chapter heading, and her hands went cold.
THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF THE SAINTESS
She did not want to turn the page. She did anyway.
There were witnesses. Poison. A ritual chamber. Blood. Delmy’s name shouted before the Imperial Court. Aman standing beside Poppy. Her father silent. Her mother crying. Her brothers restrained by guards. Then:
Lady Delmaria was formally condemned for conspiracy against the Saintess and crimes against the Imperial Crown.
Delmy stopped reading. Her vision blurred. She blinked hard.
No. This was stupid. Some magical library had written a nasty story about her, that was all. Books weren’t destiny. Books were ink.
She turned several pages at once. Her own face appeared again. Older. Hollow-eyed. The caption beneath it read:
The final known portrait of Delmaria Winternacht.
Delmy slammed the book shut.
“No.” Her voice echoed. “No.”
She looked at the fox. “I would never do those things.”
The fox watched her.
“I wouldn’t.” She grabbed the book. It was heavier than expected. “I don’t even like Aman.”
That wasn’t entirely fair. She didn’t know Aman.
“I mean — I don’t dislike him.”
The fox blinked.
“That isn’t the point.” Delmy shoved the book back onto the pedestal. “I’m leaving.”
The archive did nothing.
Delmy turned. There was no obvious exit.
“Fine.” She began walking. She would find one. She was a Winternacht, and Winternachts did not panic in libraries. Her father had probably said something like that once. Probably.
She made it six aisles before stopping. A thought had occurred to her, and Delmy slowly looked back.
If the book knew things that had already happened, could it know things that would happen soon? That did not mean the future was real. Obviously. It would simply be useful to prove it wrong.
She returned. The fox had not moved.
“I am only checking something.”
No response. Delmy reopened the book and skimmed backward — childhood, Year 894, there. Her finger stopped.
During the autumn territorial inspection, Lady Delmaria became briefly separated from her family’s party. Three days later, an assassination attempt was made against her by her longtime maid, Mera Bell.
Delmy stared. Mera? She read the paragraph twice. Mera had worked in Delmy’s household since she was four. Mera braided her hair. Mera smuggled honey cakes into the nursery. Mera had sat awake beside Delmy’s bed when she had fever.
Ridiculous.
The book claimed Mera had accepted payment from House Valcaster, a minor rival family involved in a territorial dispute with the Winternachts. Mera would place something in Delmy’s evening tea. Delmy would survive only because —
The sentence blurred. The entire page turned black.
“What?” Delmy rubbed at it. Nothing. “That’s cheating!”
The fox stood. Every lamp in the archive extinguished at once.
Delmy screamed.
Then sunlight hit her face. She stumbled forward. Grass beneath her shoes. Birdsong. Forest. Delmy spun around. No door. No archive. No fox. Only two black-barked trees standing several feet apart.
“Lady Delmaria!”
Someone shouted. Delmy froze.
“Delmy!”
Her father’s voice. She ran, branches tearing at her sleeves, and burst through a line of bushes to nearly collide with one of the household guards.
“Milady!” He dropped immediately to one knee. Others appeared behind him. Then her father.
Duke Evander Winternacht was not a man easily frightened. Delmy had seen him negotiate territorial disputes while angry men shouted across tables. She had seen him walk through a burning stable to rescue horses. She had never seen him look like this.
He grabbed her. Actually grabbed her, both arms around her shoulders. “Where were you?”
Delmy opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Behind him, her mother arrived with half her skirts lifted in both hands. “Delmaria!”
That was worse. Delmy’s eyes burned. She buried her face against her father’s coat. “I’m sorry.”
Her mother reached them and pulled her away only to hug her again. “You cannot simply disappear.”
“I know.”
“We have been looking everywhere.”
“I know.”
Aiden and Leith stood farther back with several guards. For once, neither looked amused. Leith’s face was pale. Aiden looked angry enough to set something on fire. Delmy’s shame intensified.
“I followed a fox.”
Her father stared down at her. “A fox.”
“A white one.”
Aiden made a strangled sound. Delmy glared. He wisely said nothing.
Her father closed his eyes briefly. “We will discuss this later.”
That meant punishment. Probably several punishments. Delmy didn’t care, not then. She looked through the trees. Nothing. Had she imagined it?
No. She couldn’t have. She remembered the book. Her portrait. Poppy Rose. Aman. Mera.
Her stomach turned. Delmy said nothing.
Three days passed. Nothing happened.
On the first day, Delmy watched Mera constantly. Mera noticed. “Is there something on my face, milady?”
“No.”
The second day, Delmy felt ridiculous. Mera helped her choose ribbons before breakfast. She complained that Delmy had dirt beneath her fingernails again. She told a funny story about one of the kitchen boys falling into a flour barrel.
Normal. Completely normal.
By the third evening, Delmy had almost convinced herself the archive had been some sort of magical hallucination. Perhaps strong ley lines could do that. She would ask Master Erwen. Indirectly.
Mera entered carrying a silver tray. “Your evening tea, milady.”
Delmy looked up from her book. Her heartbeat stopped.
Tea.
Mera smiled. “I asked the kitchens for the lavender blend. You’ve been restless.”
Delmy stared at the cup. No.
Mera set the tray down. “Anything else?”
Delmy couldn’t answer.
Mera’s smile faltered. “Milady?”
The book had said tea. Delmy’s fingers curled into the blanket.
Mera reached for the cup. “I’ll add honey.”
“No.” Her voice came out too sharp.
Mera stopped. Delmy swallowed. “I don’t want it.”
“Very well.” Mera picked up the tray. Relief washed through Delmy.
Then Mera said, “Perhaps just one sip. Your mother asked me to make sure you sleep.”
Delmy looked at her. Mera had never insisted before. Her chest tightened. “No.”
Mera’s expression changed. Only slightly — a tiny flattening around the mouth. Delmy saw it. Mera stepped toward her.
“Drink the tea, Lady Delmaria.”
Delmy backed away across the bed. “No.”
Mera moved faster. The tray hit the floor. Porcelain shattered. Mera grabbed Delmy’s wrist. Delmy screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth. Something flashed silver — a knife.
Delmy bit her. Hard.
Mera cried out. Delmy’s magic exploded. The stone floor cracked. Roots tore through the boards beneath the carpet. One wrapped around Mera’s ankle. Another seized her wrist. She screamed as vines erupted from the window boxes, smashing through ceramic pots and whipping across the room.
Delmy fell backward. The bedroom door burst open. Guards rushed in. Then her father. Then chaos.
Mera was dragged away shouting something Delmy could not understand. A healer examined the spilled tea. Nightshade. Moonroot. And something much worse. Enough poison to kill an adult mage.
Delmy sat wrapped in a blanket while people moved around her. Her mother knelt beside her. Her father was speaking to the captain of the guard. Aiden and Leith stood silently in the doorway. Nobody noticed Delmy staring at the broken teacup.
Three days. Exactly.
Her fingers began trembling. The archive was real. The book was real. And somewhere in a future Delmy had not yet lived, a woman with her face stood before the Imperial Court while everyone she loved watched her become a monster.
Delmy looked down at her hands. Small. Dirty. Shaking.
No.
She clenched them into fists. She didn’t know who Poppy Rose was. She didn’t know what would happen at Barugan. She didn’t know why the book existed or why it had chosen her.
But she knew one thing.
That future was not getting her without a fight.
And if fate intended to make Delmaria Winternacht its villain — then fate had better learn to be afraid of her first.