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CHAPTER 1
The letter arrived by way of a rook. A soft tapping, beak to glass, fell against the moon-glared window of the spellshop on Carrow Lane, but Fia Ives didn’t hear it over the creaking of the old, scuffed floors beneath her feet and the clapping of the cabinets as she opened and closed them—rather forcefully.
Although she’d rooted through all the drawers and cupboards in Sable Spells countless times over the last long months since she’d lost her mother, Fia couldn’t keep from doing it again in search of a very particular spellbook. One with a black velvet cover, the thread unraveling a bit at the corner, and ink-scrawled ivory pages that had never been far from her mother’s hands.
In her heart Fia knew the book wasn’t here. Not in the shop, and not in the apartment, neither upstairs nor down. But she refused to believe it was gone.
“It’s just misplaced,” she murmured, ignoring the fact that none of the spells she’d cast—some simple, some more complicated—had revealed its location either. Many late nights Fia had sat by candlelight, endeavoring to write her own finding spell, and that was the worst thing of all—that she herself was a spellwright, but for this one spell she failed again and again with its construction.
All of her attempts worked well enough on other items. Even with her rather fickle magic, she could locate a mislaid key, a runaway spool of thread, or the little bell Finnick sometimes batted behind the oven, but none of her spells had unearthed the one thing she wanted to find above all else. So here she was banging cabinets late at night with the marmalade cat at her heels, as if the book might somehow appear right under her nose.
Even knowing it was hopeless, she grasped for the threads of the last finding spell she’d so carefully written, centered it in her head and heart, and held it there, letting it bloom inside her before casting it out with a gold-dusted swish of her hand. The magic leapt into the air, humming and wild for the span of one held breath—and then it fizzled without giving even a whisper of direction. The same as all the ones before, the spell brought her nothing.
Her mood only darkened.
Edging around the wooden counter that ran along the back wall of the shop, she scanned the shelves that hung above it, as if the spellbook might be playing hide-and-seek. Among the bottles and jars of potion and powder, a collection of inkpots gathering dust, and an assortment of clutter she didn’t have the heart to part with, sat a disordered array of books in dire need of organization. She squinted at the spines, determining for the millionth time that the spellbook wasn’t here.
Another tap, louder and more impatient than the first, drummed against the front window. Startled and not at all wanting to open the door to a customer at this late hour, Fia dropped down behind the high counter, her skirt pooling on the floor. Disapprovingly, Finnick tilted his fluffy head, and only then did she realize how ridiculous she must have looked, all crouched and frowning.
She winced. Against the darkness of the autumn night, the interior of the shop gleamed with golden light from the fireplace, and whoever had come knocking would surely have seen her try to hide. Even for her, this elusive behavior seemed a tad much. Yet there she stubbornly remained.
“We’re closed,” she called, hoping they would leave. Her mother would have ushered them in—not necessarily from the goodness of her heart but for the payment that would come. Fia, however, couldn’t bring herself to move toward the door, even knowing that she should. That it was her responsibility. She felt completely overwhelmed by the spellshop now that she was (pathetically and forlornly) caring for it.
All alone.
Before she allowed those thoughts to sink her heart any further, she cried, “Come back tomorrow!”
She tensed in anticipation of an unwanted reply. But all was quiet—no one desperate and pleading for Fia to write them a fanciful spell to call their one true love or a sleeping sonnet to ease their darkest nightmares or an impossible enchantment for a happily ever after. She sighed in relief.
Then a terrible crack split the night.
Fia scrambled upright, only to go absolutely still, caught by the storm of motion beyond the front window—a pair of wings beating wildly, two glossy eyes glinting like onyx marbles. Not a customer but a rook, agitated and quick. A flash of white in the clutch of its claw.
Could it be a reply at last?
The rook dove against the window, beak striking harshly. Fia jumped as a jagged line split along the glass, and then she was flying across the room, fumbling with the lock, and throwing the door open. The inky creature swooped toward her, and instead of backing away, she stepped onto the stoop to receive the letter it dropped into her waiting hands.
The small envelope bore the golden wax seal of Thistledown Library. Heart thumping, she tore it open.
Sable Spells
16 Carrow Lane
Wakesend District, Trivoris
Dear Miss Ives,
Concerning your numerous letters seeking admittance into Thistledown’s private archives, the collection of which contains irreplaceable (and sometimes volatile) volumes of magic that must be protected from misuse, misdeeds, and mishandling, it is with regret that your request, though stirring, has been denied—on this day and in perpetuity. Thusly, there is no need to write again.
You are, of course, invited to browse the shelves open to the general public, as are all good citizens of Trivoris.
Mr. Jasper Tremaine
Assistant Archival Librarian
Fia read the letter three times before the news sank in fully, and when it did, she crumpled the paper in her fist, glaring after the rook—but it was already gone. Back to Thistledown. Back to the archives. Back to its master.
Jasper Tremaine.
