Joseph MacRae was in bed, lying on his back, staring in the direction of a ceiling he could not see. It was an ungodly hour of the morning, yet he had never fallen asleep. He tossed to his right and pulled the covers with him. His pillow felt lumpy against his cheek, so he fluffed it a bit and collapsed back down on it.

He gave sleep another chance to conquer the chaos in his mind. It was working . . . but then. . .

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Was there a brush against one of his exposed ankles? He tried to ignore it. He was so tired. And tired of being tired.

Squeak, squeak, squeak. 

His legs twitched and recoiled as he rolled to the center of the bed.

"No, that's mine."

Joe's eyes opened and a sigh flared out of his nose.

Ursa was mumbling in her sleep again. Over the last few hours, he had also heard, "Give that back . . . It's mine . . . I didn't do it . . . it's her fault," and all sorts of other "regressive" phrases. Her babyish chatter was amusing at first, but presently, he wished he had spent the night in his own chamber.

It wasn't even Ursa's sleep-talking that bothered him most. Out of all the available rooms in the castle, Ursa picked Cassie's to inhabit after she received her promotion. He was currently tossing and turning in the exact same bed where Cassie used to sleep . . . without him. Maybe it was a scent, a mood, an essence . . . or maybe his damn mind didn't want to quit bludgeoning him. Whatever it was, he couldn't subdue the raging obsession. She was beyond his reach. Always was and would forever be.

He didn't love her or miss her anymore. That was a thing of the past. He had to think of Cassie constantly. It was a matter of survival. She was linked to two of the three tasks Andromeda had requested of him. He was out of the dungeon. This was his final chance to be of value to anyone. Never before had his life been contingent on finding the right answers.

Tutoring Procyon and introducing magic to him was the easiest of Joe's tasks only because it was the most subjective. Magic was not something he could learn overnight. Andromeda, if she were at all reasonable—though that was far from a guarantee—ought to appreciate that. With smooth talking, he could possibly make small strides seem like mediocre ones. But so far, Joe hadn't made any progress. He liked to believe he was good with children, but Procyon was a little terror ever since his mother had died. And Ursa was such a lousy replacement for Lyra. Joe would take the fall, though, because no matter what, he was the wingless imbecile with "unworthy" blood in his veins.

"I want it!" Ursa whined just as Joe was slipping into a more restful state.

He lurched to a sitting position and lit a lantern. In doing so, he roused Ursa from her dream, something he wasn't exactly trying to avoid.

She squinted and tried to block the light from her eyes with her hand. "Morning already?" she inquired caustically.

Joe swiveled to the edge of the bed and grabbed his clothes from the floor. "No, I can't sleep. I'm going for a walk."

"Why don't you stay? I'll make it worth your while."

She stripped off the covers and posed on her side with her hand supporting her head. Beneath the shroud and shimmer of her silvery wings at rest, she was otherwise in the nude. But Joe did little more than glance over his shoulder. His impending execution was too much of a mood killer.

As Ursa began stroking his bare back, Joe threw on his shirt. "Not now. I have a lot on my mind."

"What is it this time?" It was evident from her tone that she didn't really care to know. She wanted pleasure, not pain, and probably wished he was someone else, or who he was before Cassie's miserable tendrils infiltrated his psyche like a cancer.

Andromeda and Ursa were the poison meant to kill that cancer. It wouldn't work or it would kill him outright. And what difference would it make? Dead was dead.

Joe had to cradle his head in his hands. A headache was well underway. "She's setting me up to fail. You know that, right?" His hands dropped and he looked back to see if Ursa would provide any insight, comfort, reassuring words. . .

"Then don't fail."

Nothing. Cassie would at least. . .

He interrupted the thought before it . . . she . . . had a chance to consume more brain cells. I have to stop doing that to myself. "That's easy for you to say! You're not going to be rat chow in two weeks!"

There was a hatch in the dungeon. The rats, the bodies, too many count . . . it was not an image . . . an experience . . . he could ever forget. What goes around, comes around. It was his first day in Pyxis. And it would be his last. . . .

"Joseph, you worry too much. You'll figure something out. You always do." She reached for him again just as he stood. Her hand never made contact.

Joe slipped his pants and loafers on, and picked up his new glasses from her nightstand, shoving them into position with his palm. With the lantern and his activity logbook in hand, he moved to the door, his tread heavy, and he thumped her door shut on his way out.

He didn't have a destination in mind. There were places he wanted to avoid, though. He didn't want to linger in the East Wing or go near the Grand Staircase. Andromeda was a creature of the night and he never knew when or where she might appear. Seeing her occasionally during the day was hard enough. If he ran into her in the middle of the night, she'd surely be able to ascertain how poorly his tasks were progressing.  

Joe headed north, past the staff quarters. He turned left and walked toward his old bedroom chamber. Once he vowed his allegiance, Andromeda granted him permission to resume his stay there. But all of his documents and personal items, other than his clothing, had been confiscated. His activity logbook was the only item returned to him, but he was certain she—they?— had tampered with it. He almost hoped they had. Since his father didn't keep regular records, the logbook had to be one of the most comprehensive accounts of the events that occurred during their four-year term "in office." Perhaps Andromeda had enough political acumen to set the vendetta aside and incorporate some of their accomplishments into her own regime?

Probably not. . .

The West Wing was as quiet as always, and not in a good way. His father's chamber and office used to be down the hall from where he now stood. Joe couldn't even go near it. Just within in the same hallway, he could feel Scott MacRae's suffocating presence, especially at night. Scott was once a night owl and his ghost might be too. Joe never gave much credence to supernatural occurrences. Even so, his father's disappointment was practically tangible at times. 

What would you have done, Dad?

His father would have never accepted Andromeda's deal—three tasks in exchange for freedom that wasn't exactly free. Yes, Joe could go where he pleased, though within the confines of the Aerial Palace. But if he left the castle, her army would hunt him down, if he even got that far. Her Crown Champions were on duty around the clock at every corner and egress and followed him within the castle if he was doing anything even remotely suspicious.

If he failed his tasks, Andromeda would torture, kill, or have him killed, depending on what Joe did or didn't do and how foul her mood was. If, by the grace of the fairy gods he completed his tasks to Andromeda's liking, more would follow. Joe was permanently in her debt. 

Scott would have chosen death, no question, but he had never experienced a brother and a fiancée's betrayal before. He always had secrets to keep and people to protect.

I have no one. . . .

Joe entered his chamber and set the lantern down on his desk. He considered writing for a little while. With a quill in hand, problems tended to solve themselves. Or at least they used to. . .

He opened to a blank page and started by listing the facts:

August 11                 

Time: 2:30 am

Day 15 of "probation"

Task 1-3

Number of hours with Procyon (August 10th): 4

Noteworthy Progress: None, tantrum to the point of vomiting

Number of hours in the Pyxis Royal Library: 8

Sections Searched: References and Indexes

E (3000.400) - G (1250.050)

Days until Progress Report: 13

Comments?

Joe couldn't think of a single thing to report that might help him in the future. He rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and then added: None. 

Signing off,        

Joseph Michael MacRae

He slammed down his quill and shot from his chair. His bed wasn't calling to him. It was mocking him. You can rest once you're dead.

After a few minutes of pacing, grumbling, and hair-pulling, he left for the Royal Library.

Since it was so early in the morning, there was a good possibility he'd avoid the kooky, bespectacled librarian. "Hermie" was as knowledgeable as one would expect of someone who literally lived in the library, but he was older than dirt, hard of hearing, and seemed out of storage space for short-term memory. And he adored Cassie and always asked about her. 

When Joe was feeling particularly sorry for himself the evening prior, Hermie, as if satisfying a daily ritual, hobbled with his cane—his wings were even more dysfunctional than his legs were—over to the table where Joe had books piled practically sky high. Hermie then said in his old-timer drawl, "Where has Princess Cassiopeia been lately? Would you do me a favor and tell her I've discovered a few books that might interest her?"

Joe usually made up a succinct lie to save face, his more than hers. But on this particular occasion, he plastered on a caustic smile. "Cassiopeia, you ask? Well! That deceitful little harlot is fucking what's left of my brother's brains out, probably as we speak. If and when I ever get a chance to look her in the eye again, hopefully wiping that immodest little grin off her face while I'm at it, I'll tell her you say hello."

"Much appreciated, my young friend," Hermie replied, evidently missing most of what Joe had said except for the "hello" part. "And do give my regards to your father as well."

When he left, Joe banged his head on the table until he could no longer stand the pain.

He may have been more patient with Hermie if he could actually accept his help. But he was sworn to secrecy. His tasks were a true test of his intelligence, perseverance, and deviousness, most likely. And maybe that was the problem. He wasn't well-versed in the latter. Not yet. But he was getting there, faster than he would have predicted for himself.  

In the early days of the project, Joe tried to get around Andromeda's stipulation by consulting with Hermie. Joe spoke in general terms so he wouldn't give anything away. He expected to get a nod in the right direction.  But without specifics, Hermie sent Joe to the "Reference and Indexes" section, which was like stating the obvious. At that point, Joe had already skimmed the titles of thousands of books and checked hundreds of "Table of Contents" in that very section.

He was getting nowhere then. He was getting nowhere now, and he wasn't even done with the "Reference and Indexes" section yet.

He'd have to come up with a new plan. . . .

Joe creaked open the narrow north entrance of the library. It was considered a "secret passage" and he was using it for a reason. He didn't want anyone to witness his daredevil mission, one that defied logic.

The back of the library was the right place to tear through the oldest and least organized books. It was a desperate move by a desperate fairy. Since his conventional searches weren't yielding any results, what did he have to lose?  

He lifted the lantern and charged into the "Antiquity" section. The crumbling books, overflowing from the shelves and piled from floor to ceiling, seemed to gobble up the light in his hand. He could barely see his own feet.

Letters, runes, emblems . . . were whizzing by. He was waiting for something spectacular to strike. Answers had to exist. He just had to have enough dumb luck to stumble upon them. 

The first four aisles . . . nothing. He moved faster, tried to speed-read. He scanned for strong key words in English where he could. Armor? No. Torture . . . Charms . . . Enchanted Forests . . . Hexes . . . Maladies . . . Goblin Wars. No, no, NO!

Joe stopped at the end of an aisle to cough the dust from his lungs. The lantern and the flame rattled in his hand. He felt suddenly light-headed and swayed toward a bookshelf. He bumped against it with his left shoulder.

More of a jolt than the shelf could sustain, the leg snapped off. The whole thing teetered toward him. Books on the top shelf fell to the floor. Joe lunged to stabilize it with both hands. His lantern fell to the ground and shattered.

While he was pushing the shelf back up, about half its books now at his feet, the flame had become a sizable fire, thriving on the oil, grit, and loose bits of paper everywhere. The fallen books were in danger of burning, too. The whole library could. . .

Joe quickly shoved a fat book beneath the shelf at the site of the missing leg, and then stomped on the flames like a fallen angel in a dance off with death. He pulled off his nightshirt, too, and dropped to his knees to smother the last of the flames. And, right before the light went out, something caught his eye. He didn't have the opportunity to read the book's title, but the gold symbol on its spine continued to float before his eyes, even in the absolute darkness. 

He sat on his haunches and scrambled for the matches in his pocket.  His hands were shaking. He dropped the first match before he had a chance to light it. After a moment of scrambling through the pile of debris for it, he gave up and grabbed for another. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself before he attempted to light the next one. He didn't want to drop this one too. It was his last one. His final chance.

Swish. At last, there was light! Joe hoped his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. Did I really see it . . . the star?

Joe cradled the flame with his hand and lit a controlled fire with paper and what remained of the lantern.

He located and picked up the book of interest, and blew off about four centuries of dust. It swirled around the room and decreased the air's clarity even more. He wiped off the remaining grime with his hand so he could relish every detail of the cover.

Joe didn't care if he had the forces of good or evil to thank. He was grateful either way. Then, as if a chain reaction went off in his mind, an idea for his third task came to him as well. He would need permission to leave the caves of Pyxis, but he was now confident Andromeda would grant him whatever he requested. To her, these answers were worth killing for.

Once Joe returned to his chamber, he opened Precious Gemstones and opened to a new page of his logbook for notes. He would not eat, and he would not sleep until he read the book cover to cover.

Thirteen days until Progress Report. . .      

And for the first time since his post-imprisonment debacle began, he felt he had plenty of time.

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