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OF PARCHMENT & INK
AN EVENING OF ELEGANCE AND EXTRAVAGANCE
IN AUCTION OF EXTRAORDINARY GRIMOIRES
MAY THE GARGOYLES ADMIT YOU
ON THE 31ST OF OCTOBER
TWILIGHT AT THISTLEDOWN
Another few streets blurred by, and finally the carriage rolled to a stop. Andromeda shifted forward as a footman opened the door and extended his hand to her. Stepping lightly, she greeted the night in a cloud of tulle, laughter tinkling as though the evening were full of promise, not danger.
Perhaps both things were true, though, and the contradiction set Fia on edge. She moved to follow Andromeda, when Penbrook’s careful voice stopped her.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Oh!” Fia’s mask hung loose from her hand, dangling on its ribbons and sprinkling black glitter. She fumbled it up to her face, the delicate material only wide enough to cover her eyes. “Tie it for me?”
Sluggishly, Penbrook leaned forward, caught in the golden light leaking through the open door. Fia swung around. Could feel him behind her even before he touched her, so aware of his nearness. As he took up the ribbons of her mask, his fingers grazed her hair. Every one of her nerves went tingly and warm.
“There,” he said, tying a bow.
“Thank you.” She wondered if this would be their last moment alone tonight. If she was foolish not to say more to him now. While she still could. “Penbrook?”
She turned, only to find he was already halfway out of the carriage. With a hand on the frame of the door, he glanced back, brow perpetually arched so it could be seen above his mask. Andromeda stood on the walk, awaiting them both.
“Oh…” Fia faltered. “Never mind.”
In the moment before Penbrook turned away, she caught his look of disappointment.
Feeling her own sense of discontent, Fia stepped down after him, straightening her glittering black mask. She took a deep breath of the cool night air. Shoved aside regrets she couldn’t even put a name to.
Twilight teased a sky full of stars, traces of silver just beginning to wink in the gentle darkness above Thistledown. Looking up at the great library, Fia shivered. From the rooftop, the rooks were watching, and so was the gargoyle, slanted across the wheel window of the archives.
The creature had already caught her once, and she wondered if the mask was enough to hide her among the glamour of everyone else in attendance. Even if she wasn’t the one carrying The Book of Ribs, she couldn’t afford to be recognized. They’d probably assume she’d come to steal another grimoire.
Against her chest, her own gargoyle shifted, a slight stretch of its stony wings along the ribbon around her neck, but it didn’t reassure her as it used to. Maybe the charm really wasn’t anything more than a hideously beautiful trinket.
“Come on,” Andromeda said around a red-lipped smile. “We’ll be in and out.” Her words lacked her usual confidence, though, and her eyes, partially veiled beneath a swath of black tulle, looked rather pinched at the corners.
Wordlessly, Penbrook glanced back at Fia, his mask the exact shade of the twilit sky, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. The thin scratch Finnick had left on his jaw glared pink, the illusion he’d cast on it undone, and Penbrook didn’t even seem to realize he’d lost the thread of his magic.
Fia hadn’t meant to lag behind and hurried her steps just as Andromeda stumbled. Penbrook caught his friend’s arm, forcing a laugh as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Showing that everything was well and fine.
“We’re on our last legs,” he said in much too careless a tone for all the tragic truth of the words.
“I hope they last a little longer.” Andromeda snorted. “I’ll simply perish if I don’t get to dance tonight.”
“Ah, spoken with your dying breath.”
They were back at it again, tossing out their morbid quips, and Fia could so clearly imagine the way they must have been when they were younger—cartwheeling and howling and finding all sorts of trouble—friends all these years in between. So she said nothing. Let them have fun, if that was what this was for them.
She would simply have to trust in Andromeda’s words. We’ll figure things out after the masque. Fia wasn’t giving up on them. Or on herself. She’d write a more powerful spell. Somehow.
As they reached the wide stone steps, Penbrook paused, reaching into one of his pockets. She had the irrational thought that he was going to brandish The Book of Ribs, but he only pulled out a bottle Fia recognized from the shelves of her spellshop—an energizing serum.
Penbrook unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle to his mouth. His throat worked up and down as he swallowed. And swallowed again.
