The narrow passageway was never meant to be lit in any fashion, and the tiny blue magelight highlighted to Bern why. He already knew it was a tight fit because his shoulders brushed both sides of the passage, but seeing the inside of the plaster lathe on his left and the rough hewn stone of the palace wall pressing on his right, barely two feet apart, made him feel a claustrophobia he hadn't felt in the pitch dark. The air was stale but oddly dust-free. Bern thought perhaps it had been spelled against it in the very stones so anyone using the passage wouldn't show the signs once they popped out in the library, which he hoped to do, if Marijel ever finished with her scribblings.
It was Bern's magelight but it was Marijel who was Listening to the people in the parlor so she could Compose the piece she was frantically transcribing from her brain into her music-ruled notebook. Bern watched in fascination as the black specks filled the page. He knew Marijel was Composing as fast as possible, but he still willed her to hurry.
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