He gestured slightly upward. "The enchantments woven into the shelves. They resonate faintly when sunlight strikes them."
Evelisse strained to listen. At first, nothing—then, very faintly, like glass touched by a fingertip, a hum echoed in the beams.
Her lips parted. "You're right. I never…"
"You'll hear more, if you keep listening."
His voice was so calm, so certain, Evelisse felt a flutter of warmth, a strange comfort. She wanted to speak but instead busied herself straightening books that didn't need straightening.
Then Caelith's voice lowered. "Do you always feel strange here? Like… half of you belongs, but half is elsewhere?"
Her hands froze on the book spines. Slowly, she turned.
"You… know?"
He looked at her with steady eyes. "I see it. In your mana. In your eyes. You carry two patterns. Two stories layered together."
She whispered, almost breathless. "And you're… not afraid of that?"
