THE FLAME THAT SINGS

Welcome! This page contains the first chapter of The Flame That Sings (Eternal Library Book 3) as a sample for your reading pleasure. Links to where you can acquire the book will be provided at the end if you decide you’d like to read more. Enjoy!

Content warning for this chapter: depictions of anxiety, brief reference to growing up in a religious cult

CHAPTER ONE

The moment I step foot into the Head Librarian’s office, my betrayal is complete. I am in the heart of the enemy fortress, and before me sit three formidable foes. According to my upbringing, those who work for the Eternal Library do nothing less than taxidermy living stories into blasphemous, unchanging, immortal shells from which there is no escape. They are naught but tools of a fascist regime which will burn in the rivers of fire and choke on the clouds of ash that will one day descend from the holy peak of Mount Cináed on high in retribution for their crimes.

I am here for a job interview, in hopes of joining them.

The Flame in my lungs smolders with barely repressed anxiety. This would be the worst of all places to have a meltdown and fill the room with smoke. Open flame is not allowed in the Library, for obvious reasons. I reassure myself that I am not an open flame so long as I don’t allow any to escape my body. I am merely, as Mairead has said, the equivalent of a human lighter.

This is a sacrilegious way to describe a Flamekeeper, spouse to the Star-Crowned deity of fire and creator of Caspora, who gifted these magical Flames to the exalted leaders of my ancient ancestors. I have already committed worse spiritual crimes, so I will allow it.

“Mx. Aeronwy Silverdream,” says Head Librarian Opaline Sweetfrond, “welcome, welcome. It’s a delight to see you once again.”

“And you,” I reply, inclining my head. It is a miracle I manage two words in my current state, but to say nothing would be unacceptable.

Opaline cuts a dashing figure: dark eyes, warm brown skin lined with decades of wisdom, shiny gray shag haircut and matching full beard; horn-rimmed glasses and a three-piece tweed suit no doubt tailored to eir measurements. Sitting at attention behind the enormous redwood desk, Opaline projects an air of friendly authority I find intimidating.

The Illuminator sitting to Opaline’s left says, “Hello, again. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at June’s initiation gala last—was it last week? Or the week before?”

Fiona Blackswan is thin and mousy, black hair pulled back in a messy bun, old-fashioned clothing wrinkled and dotted with ink stains. Eir gaze is soft and jittery, dancing over me and refusing to make direct contact, for which I am grateful.

“It was two weeks ago,” says the second Illuminator, sitting on Opaline’s right.

Catrina Rosefall does make direct eye contact, glass green irises sharp against eir brown skin. I meet eir gaze for as long as I can before looking away. Rose—thanks to June I know this is what e prefers to be called—is small in stature but bold in every other way. E lounges with casual self assurance in the otherwise stiff char, draped in a rainbow patchwork dress and laden with costume jewelry. Bangles on both wrists chime whenever e moves.

“Was it really? Well, time certainly goes by quicker and quicker as I age,” Fiona says, then squints at me and says, “How old are you, Mx. Silverdream?”

“I will be twenty-five this fall,” I explain, feeling all three pairs of eyes on me now. They will be scrutinizing my height, my ‘mature’ face, and in particular the large gray streak which parts my hair on the left side.

Predictably, Fiona (who I would guess is in eir mid-thirties) says, “Goodness! Really?”

I nod. I planned for this part of the conversation.

Opaline chuckles. At Fiona’s surprise? At me? At the unaccountable way time wears on the human body? I find it difficult to detect intent in laughter at times, but by all accounts, Opaline Sweetfrond is a kind and compassionate person. Certainly I’ve heard nothing but good things from June, who spent the last three years as Opaline’s apprentice.

“Please, sit! Make yourself comfortable,” Opaline says, gesturing to a trio of chairs set before the desk.

I consider my options. Shall I sit directly in the center, facing Opaline, who appears to be leading this interview? Shall I sit on the side closest to Rose, whose mentorship is the prize at the end of this long process? The chair closer to Fiona looks more comfortable. It has better cushions. Will they analyze every move I make?

That is what I would do, were I behind the desk. An image of myself, decades older and seated in the Head Librarian’s seat, fills my mind’s eye: a ridiculous vision at which I laugh internally, careful not to convey my inner monologue to the others.

I decide the middle chair is the safest option. I keep my posture in check: back straight, head up, eyes forward (though slightly unfocused, to protect myself from the gazes before me), feet planted firmly on the floor. The boned corset and knee-high boots under my dress provide a comforting sense of pressure.

The Head Librarian’s office is an odd, round room with a high ceiling full of skylights. The space is dominated by an enormous desk that appears to have been made from a slice of redwood trunk, then outfitted with numerous tiny drawers. Behind the desk, the curved wall has been custom fit with beautiful matching bookshelves.

I’ve dusted it many times on housekeeping rounds. I know that it is full of books on the history of the Library, of Caspora itself, on politics, spirit communication, and anything else a Head Librarian might need.

The room is located in the center of the Spire, the five hundred year old building which houses the Library’s collection of Illuminated tomes. These books have been constructed, written, and illustrated entirely by hand, by magicians who through use of the right materials, spirit communication, astrological timing, and some mysterious final secret, render the final product immortal. Illuminated tomes can be destroyed with great effort, but otherwise they stand strong against the test of time.

Grounded by the thought of the books, I manage to untie my tongue. “Thank you for considering me for such an incredible opportunity,” I say, folding my hands in my lap and ignoring the urge to twirl my hair or fiddle with my rings. “To advance this far in the Illumination apprenticeship application process at the Eternal Library itself is a great honor.”

Though if everyone back home—not home, no, but back where I am from—knew, they’d be horrified. Shocked. Worst, they’d be disappointed. Perhaps even unsurprised. Shame wars with the electric battery of spite that has kept me going all these years. Not for the first time, I am glad that my emotions rarely show on my face.

Opaline smiles and leans forward on the desk. “There’s no need to be so formal at this point in the application process. We’re here to get a glimpse of who you are as a person, now that we’ve verified your technical credentials.”

“Though admittedly,” says Rose, “we’ve already heard quite a lot about you from June.”

Juniper Starstitch is the third of the three Illuminators currently employed by the Eternal Library. Newly minted, e was fully initiated into the craft only just this summer, prompting Opaline’s retirement from the Bindery. June is currently waiting outside the Head Librarian’s office, having declined to take part in the interview process because e’s one of my few close friends…and my partner.

The romantic aspect of our relationship is as new as June’s status as an Illuminator. It has heavily contributed to the sense that I’ve spent the past few weeks in a waking dream. I hardly know what to do with myself other than push forward and pray that I don’t wake to find it was all an elaborate fantasy. My Flame flickers and shudders at the possibility.

“We’ve only heard good things,” Opaline reassures me.

Does that help my standing, or hinder it? Do these ‘good things’ improve my chances of being chosen for Rose’s apprenticeship, or will they set me aside to avoid accusations of nepotism? Surely they care about fairness and true merit?

Then again, for the majority of my life I believed the Fellowship cared about such things, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. Will I be asked to accept an appointment based on connections rather than credentials? I have worked at the Library, albeit in housekeeping, for long enough to know that social currency is often worth more than skill.

Rose, whose eyes still have not left my face, says, “It actually would bother you if you thought we hired you because June knows and likes you, wouldn’t it?”

My nerve endings tingle with surprise. “Shouldn’t it?” I reply.

“Aeronwy,” Rose continues, “Can I call you Aeronwy? Don’t worry about the nepotism. First of all, getting along and liking each other is crucial to this partnership. Second of all, like Opal said, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t qualified for the job. The way you’re sitting there like a statue, I suspect you’re terrified—”

“Be a fool not to be,” Fiona mutters.

“—which is normal enough. Don’t forget, all three of us have been in your position before,” says Rose. “Let’s cut to the chase, relax, dispose of the usual question list.”

My Flame pops and snaps uncomfortably. Those are the questions I prepared for.

“Hold on now,” says Opaline in a warning tone.

Rose holds up a hand. “This is my first time choosing an apprentice. I adore and respect you and your centuries of experience, Opal, but I tried to do things ‘properly’ for the other three interviews. Now I’m going to do it my own way.”

Fiona sighs and tosses the clipboard e was holding onto the desk, papers fluttering. “Guess I won’t be needing this.”

There is a familiarity that suggests they often argue this way; indeed June’s stories about them confirm this. However, June did not inform me, either because e didn’t know or because e forgot (as e’s prone to do), that Rose has never had an apprentice before.

This is, I feel, a crucial tidbit of information. It means that there is a lack of precedent. There is a new nexus of uncertainty, which I hate.

Opaline gestures in defeat and Rose lowers eir hand. Rose and I stare at one another. I would rather not, as it is quite an intimate gesture to me, but I feel transfixed.

“Aeronwy, would you mind if I took a deeper look at your aura?” e asks.

“I don’t mind,” I reply, having expected this, at least.

Rose’s eyes unfocus, pupils dilating. A filmy soap bubble of colors coats the room, stronger around the figures of the three Illuminators.

I blink against the psychic intrusion and the bubble pops. Rose’s gaze snaps back, and the corner of eir mouth lifts. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, though I fear it’s rude. I can’t hold back this time.

“Did you See something?” Rose asks. When I nod, e goes on: “Most people who are psychically sensitive can sense it when I read them. They don’t usually, what, catch an echo? You’re primarily clairvoyant, correct? I remember your test results were visually oriented.”

“Correct,” I reply.

Rose says, “Your aura is very peculiar.”

I knew this was possible—that my Flame, which I have kept secret from everyone but my closest friends for the past seven years, might be visible to a famous Seer like Catrina Rosefall. What else could it be? The Flame is an indelible part of my being. My heart thrums and my breathing constricts. I swallow the smoke building inside of me back down.

“Is that so?” I ask.

I will need all of my care and attention to get through this. There is a challenge in Rose’s eyes that’s visible even to me, an autistic person who has had to consciously learn the facial expressions of those without ‘fairy blood,’ as my older relatives would say.

Rose shrugs and says, “It’s not surprising. People who end up in Illumination tend to be peculiar themselves. No offense to my dear coworkers.”

“None taken,” says Opaline.

“You always mean offense,” says Fiona, “but I expect it by now.”

Silence falls. This is, I suspect, the part where I’m supposed to ask what exactly is peculiar about my aura. When I don’t, Rose tilts eir head to one side, smile widening into a catlike grin. Nervous flickers of music rise up from my Flame, single lyrical lines circling my mind like a carousel.

Rose rises to eir feet, then ducks behind the desk and comes up with a large, heavy cardboard box, one I recognize. It’s my physical art and craft portfolio, which I turned in moons ago at the beginning of the application process.

“Your art is steeped in Casporan traditions, you’ve great attention to detail, and incredible precision for someone so early in their craft journey,” Rose says, holding up my handmade books for examination. “In that way you’re different from June.”

Just before I entered this den of judgment, June had advised me to ‘be myself.’ As if I understand what that means, having only begun to grow a sense of self seven years ago, after leaving the Fellowship behind. Can Rose see that in my work?

I clear my throat. “June’s craft is loose and innovative in ways mine could never be,” I say.

Opaline says, “We need a mixture of work styles in the Bindery. Rose is more like June, an intuitive risk-taker. Fiona is flexible and well-rounded. I am more like you, in that I prefer structure and specificity. Given that I am the one leaving, it makes sense to maintain that balance.”

This should ignite a glow of pride in my chest, but instead it feels like cold water flicked onto a hot pan, my Flame cracking and popping. I never have known what to do with compliments, in this case the favorable comparison to an incredible artist like Opaline.

Rose pulls out the burned book and the lyrics repeating in my Flame skip like a scratched record. I’d agonized over what to send in my portfolio for weeks, only to throw that particular specimen in at the last moment. I am not impulsive. I am the opposite of impulsive. Yet, from time to time, I am unable to suppress a strong instinct.

The scent of charred paper wafts from the slim volume bound in red linen. The edges are black and irregular. The interior pages are filled with holes, around which swirl lyrics to the traditional Cináedite hymns I was taught growing up. I made the entire book in one feverish night this spring, coming to my senses as the sun rose to find the object had appeared as if by magic in my hands.

Magic certainly was involved. I performed all of the burning with my own breath.

“Traditional, detailed, controlled, et cetera,” Rose says, flipping through the book, “and yet, there’s this. Care to explain?”

I shift in my seat. I want to play with my hair, but it will be less noticeable if I spin my rings around in my lap, instead. I drop my eyes to the gold and semiprecious stones I wear as much for the delight their shine and sparkle bring as for their magical properties. Obsidian, hematite, smoky quartz. Dark stones that protect and ground. Stones that shield me when I cannot do so myself.

“I apologize if the burned pages have caused any offense,” I say. “I understand that there is a fine line when it comes to art and that book burning of any kind is a sensitive topic.”

Fiona and Opaline nod thoughtfully, but Rose blows a derisive raspberry in response.

“Don’t apologize,” e says. “I think this is brilliant. I have no idea why it’s brilliant, but I can feel it. What does it mean to you, Aeronwy Silverdream?”

It’s been seven years since I took a new name; my given name I thoroughly enjoy, but my new surname continues to feel awkward and wrong. Yet, what choice do I have? I had to leave my old identity behind so that they would never find me—and so that others could never figure out from whence I came.

That’s what the book is about, of course. It is about me. It is about identity. It is a personal language of fire and song. It tells part of my story.

I say, carefully, “That is difficult to explain. If I had words to describe what that book means to me, I would not have needed to make it.”

Rose lets out a bark of a laugh and says, “Fair enough! I have said basically the same about my own work.”

“An artist to the core, drawn to the craft by necessity,” adds Opaline. “Yes, Rose is much the same. Most of us in this tradition are. After all, Illumination is more than physical craft. You must have the drive to dig deep, deep within the soul to perform this work.”

“I am prepared to do so,” I say.

I cannot yet tell them that I have already had years of intense spiritual training, or that I carry the memories of my spiritually advanced ancestors with me, that at sixteen I was made to lead (or at least appear to lead) an entire spiritual community. I will have to hope they take me at my word.

Rose’s eyes narrow, though e’s still smiling. “Is that so? You’ve seen what June went through these last three years. Would you trust me to lead you through the same dark valley? Even though we’ve met just briefly, on several occasions?”

I pick apart the words, the tone, the facial expressions. Rose knows something of my secret, somehow, I’m sure of it. Did e choose ‘valley’ as a metaphor on purpose, having discovered the name of my birthplace? These questions are becoming more and more difficult. I can’t decide what it is that Rose wants to hear, which means I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.

And yet.

Six and a half years ago, when we first ran into one another in the Duskspinner Reading Room…

That was when I knew I wanted to become an Illuminator, to become the enemy of the truly ardent Cináedite, as I’d been taught they were. Because of Rose I was allowed my first glimpse into that forbidden world and discovered, not for the first time, that I had been lied to.

It was a chance moment in time I told no one about, not even June, until just recently. That was my end of the bargain: protecting Rose’s secret napping spot in exchange for access to books no teenage housekeeper should have been allowed to breathe on, let alone touch. Let alone read.

“Yes,” I say. “I would trust your guidance.”

“I can tell you really mean that,” Rose says, amused.

“I am not a particularly talkative person. I try to make my words matter when I do use them, and stick to the truth,” I reply.

“How admirable of you,” says Rose. E sets aside the burned book and hops up onto the desk, crossing one leg over the other. Opaline sighs, but Rose ignores em. “I appreciate direct communication as well. So, instead of continuing to dance around the matter, I’ll just ask: are you, by any chance, a Cináedite Flamekeeper?”

There it is, right in the open. My body goes numb, but still my mind dreams this increasingly strange dream. I’d hoped to keep this secret until after I had secured the apprenticeship. After all, what if I am not a human lighter? What if I am, truly, an open and dangerous flame, one which cannot be allowed to work in the heart of the Library?

Rose locks eyes with me again. I study the elements of eir expression and read expectation there: this is a test.

Be yourself. In this case, at least, I do know what that means.

“Yes,” I hear myself say, “I am. Though I am estranged from my Hearth and in self-imposed exile.”

Rose’s face glows in response to my words. My clairvoyance paints a literal golden nimbus around eir head. I think I may have passed the test. I think I may have outed myself to the last people I ever imagined revealing my true identity to. How will they respond?

“There it is,” says Rose. “Thank you, Aeronwy, for trusting me. You can clear your calendar for the upcoming equinox—that’s when the mentor-apprentice Binding ceremonies are done.”

The rest of us voice our responses all at once, a cacophony of confusion. In the background, colorful phrases appear from the books on the shelf as they psychically respond to what Rose has just said.

“Pardon?”

“Catrina, wait, I think there’s quite a lot more to be said—”

“Sorry, what now?”

Rose sighs dramatically, rolls eir eyes, and starts to reply, but Opaline raises both hands in a shushing gesture. The room quiets instantly. In my psychic eye the Head Librarian is the conductor of a symphony of books, pages fluttering shut as a wave of energy bursts from Opaline’s hands. A few of the books grumble in spots of color and flickers of written words, but they, like the Illuminators, fall silent.

“While you do have the final say in your choice of apprentice,” Opaline says to Rose, “this is still a group decision. Most Illuminators stay in the profession for life, and transfers to other Binderies are rare. While I will no longer be working in the Bindery myself, as the Head Librarian it is my duty to ensure that the right people end up in the right places. I care for the two of you, and for June, and what your working relationships are like. Therefore, I would like a bit more information before the decision is made.”

“I agree,” adds Fiona.

I may have passed Rose’s test, but it is not the only one at hand. The electric tingle of hope in my nerves fizzles out, hands and feet growing cold as my Flame shrinks in on itself.

Rose nods. The gold nimbus around eir face has faded, but not disappeared entirely. “All right, then. Ask your questions, whatever you need.”

Opaline turns to me, smiling, eyebrows raised, hands folded loosely on the desk. I detect no tightness around the mouth or nose, only a glimmer in eir eyes as they flicker around my face and figure, reappraising. An expression of kindness?

“A Flamekeeper,” e says, and the word is not a question. “Yes, I could sense an interesting bend in spiritual space and time around you, but I could not pinpoint its origin. I will say the answer is unexpected. There have not been many Cináedite Illuminators in the Library’s nearly thousand year history, given that the craft was limited only to Scriptivist nuns until after the Casporan Revolution in 3772.”

I find it surprising that there have been any Cináedite Illuminators at all. I had assumed, arrogantly it seems, that I might be the first. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Even if I become the first Flamekeeper Illuminator, it’s not as if I can reveal that to the rest of the country without endangering my new life.

“It can’t be easy to join an institution with a long history of oppressing your people, even if things are, as far as I know, generally friendly now between the Library and Cináedites. How do you feel about that?” Fiona says in a soft voice, a wry smile pulling at the corner of eir mouth. Opaline nods along in agreement.

“It has been…simultaneously difficult and the easiest thing I have ever done,” I reply. “When I broke with my religious upbringing I discovered just how many lies I had been told about books and the Library. Since then I have been highly motivated by spite to explore the truth myself,” I say. “I’ve found that yes, it is true, the terrible oppression from the Library Cináedites have faced in the past and still today. However, the power of Story is what matters to me, and this seems to be—well, this seems to be a place where it can be found, in great numbers. I wonder if there is not a space to meet in the middle.”

This seems to satisfy Opaline and Fiona, if their nodding heads are any indication. Rose’s expression says little other than that e’s listening intently.

Opaline hesitates before saying, “I understand this is a sensitive question, but for the safety of everyone involved, I would like to know what you meant about being in ‘self-imposed exile.’”

The fullness of my childhood and adolescence swells at the base of my throat, eighteen years of experience wishing to make itself known in a single answer. That is, of course, impossible. The seconds tick by as I struggle to come up with an acceptable response.

“I was raised in a cult,” I say. “I couldn’t stay. However, to leave, being what I am…”

Always the word feels heavy on my tongue; I cannot deny that the Fellowship fits the definition, both dictionary and popular understanding, of a cult. I cannot deny that it, with all its connotations, is the easiest way to explain to relative strangers what I went through. Still, I have never felt entirely comfortable with the word.

When I don’t finish my sentence, Opal says, “Leaving such situations is never easy, to my understanding. Your desire for secrecy makes sense, and you have my sympathy. I won’t pry any more.”

A descending scale of notes tumbles from my Flame in relief, though of course I am the only one who can hear it.

“Great Author, that certainly explains it. I didn’t know there were Cináedite cults, but I suppose they exist for every religion out there, somewhere,” says Fiona. E glances at Rose. “Just one more thing. How did you know?”

Rose shrugs and points two fingers at eir eyes. “As I said earlier, Aeronwy has a very peculiar aura. It’s hard to look at, actually, like staring into a welding torch. It’s beyond blue. I noticed it when we first met—what, seven years ago?”

“Six years,” I provide, “and six moons.”

“I was intrigued,” Rose continues. “I’ve seen Flamekeeper auras before, and recognized it right away, it’s so distinctive. Though I have to say that I wondered, if you were a Flamekeeper, what you were doing working in Library housekeeping. As far as I understand, tending a Hearth is usually a full time job—though I’ve known a few for whom it wasn’t.”

“True,” Opaline says. “My acquaintance Sloan Dawndreamer is a Flamekeeper, and the current Caspora City Fire Marshal. I believe that position is almost always held by a Flamekeeper, and certainly that is outside ordinary Temple duties.”

Ah, that’s right. One of the many reasons the Fellowship shunned other Cináedites was that their Flamekeepers ‘do not devote their entire heart, body, and soul to worship and translation of the Words.’ Having another occupation outside of the Hearth would certainly qualify for that in the Fellowship’s eyes.

Even now, so far removed from my upbringing, my instinct is to discount these Flamekeepers who apparently spend time on careers outside the Hearth. I’ve had to exile myself for not devoting myself entirely to my Hearth—why are they allowed a pass? This intrusion of old beliefs is so unsettling that it steals away my words. If I am asked another question now, I will not be able to respond verbally.

Opaline says, “I assume that’s why Rose is drawn to you. We’re as curious a bunch as we are odd. We find it difficult to leave any mystery unexplored.”

“You do know me,” Rose says, laying fondness on thick.

Opaline ignores em and smiles brightly. “I think you’ll fit in well. Congratulations, Mx. Silverdream. We’d like to offer you the job.”

Want more? The Flame That Sings is on BackerKit Crowdfunding June 2 - July 2, 2025! Click the link below to see the campaign and make a pledge—backers get a bunch of cool exclusive rewards. The book will be available in ebook, paperback, and limited edition hardcover. If you haven’t read books one and two, you can pick them up now via the links below or get them all together during the campaign.