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He tipped his forehead to her own. “Good, because I’m absolutely wasted without you.” And it would have been the perfect last line, except she didn’t want anything between them to be their last.

“I’m mad about you,” she breathed.

In the next moment, she spun.

The enchanted spider ticked toward her, scrambling across the marble floor. As it reached the hem of her dress, tossing a silken thread forward, she lifted her foot, squeezed closed her eyes—and guiltily thought of Grace, who’d probably try to save it. It’s not alive! Fia reminded herself, then stomped down.

When she opened her eyes again, a web was uncoiling beneath her slipper, then began twisting around her ankle. She tried to pull away, but the golden strands held her fast to the floor, climbing up her calf while the spider—unharmed—scampered toward a pale-faced Penbrook.

Just as the arachnid leapt, Rin appeared like a valiant knight, winging down from above and catching the squirming illusion in his mouth with an unexpectedly vicious bite. His beak gleamed golden, magic leaking and coming undone.

Incredulously, Sebastian watched the songbird wheel away. Then shook himself. His eyes narrowed on Fia and Penbrook, and with a vengeance, he sent a clutter of spiders in the wake of the first.

On horribly clicking legs, they skittered forward, scrambling over one another in their haste to reach Penbrook and Fia. Quickly she bent, sawing at the glistening web laced tightly around her ankle.

The spiders reached Penbrook first, eagerly scuttling their way up his body even as he urgently tried to swipe at them. They glowed golden on his legs, his arms. His cheek. Fia’s stomach roiled squeamishly.

Unconcerned with what he’d wrought, Sebastian turned away.

“Wait!” Fia screamed, but the magician continued his retreat, striding toward the majestic doors of Thistledown.

Frantically, Fia sliced at the chiming threads. She couldn’t let Sebastian go. He was too much of a threat to Trivoris, and there was no telling how terribly he might escalate his spells.

Or rather, Sable’s spells. And so long as he had her mother’s book, Fia would always feel responsible. She didn’t want these curses to be Sable Ives’s legacy.

“Penbrook,” Fia moaned, breaking away just as the spiders impossibly fell from his limbs to the floor. Her mouth dropped open. “How—?”

“I don’t think they like the taste of me,” he said with a vicious shudder and a grin. “Perhaps curses are sometimes contagious after all. To other curses.”

“The spiders are… sleeping?” Fia gasped, slowly edging forward while watching their still-twitching legs.

“Not all of them, so watch your step,” he warned, eyes on the wide-open doors.

And then the pair was running, Fia taking the lead, squashing illusioned spiders underfoot and slashing at the webbing the active ones cast. Above her footfalls there came the sudden caw of a rook, then another, and Rin’s high chirp, his feathers so bright among dozens of beautifully dark-winged birds finally torn free of their bindings. They circled the high ceiling, soaring around the chandelier with golden threads trailing from their claws, then spiraled down, intent on devouring the enchanted spiders.

As Fia broke into the night, she startled at the sight of the Cloaks who had been on guard beside the attendant, all of them trapped in lacelike webs against the stone, and the gargoyle so high above, gnashing itself loose. Fia stopped only long enough to cut the attendant’s hand free and pass him the shard of glass before she was off again, clipping down the steps with Penbrook coming slowly and determinedly after.

Sebastian had already crossed the street, unhurried as he slipped into the public garden, never once looking back. Fia seethed. How could he so coldly walk away, leaving all those guests caught up in tangled webs, fear coursing through their veins? She still didn’t understand what exactly he wanted, but she knew she had to stop him.

Her palms warmed, her cheeks burned, everything in her sparking. Darting across the cobbled street and into the darkened garden, Fia reached for the magic at her fingertips, all the spells inked on her paper-made gown, and she called on the first one she touched without reading it. Feeling the power of her mother’s words washing through her, bright and intoxicating.

Golden dust lifted into the air as the magic poured out of her.

On the path ahead, Sebastian’s steps faltered, a shudder coursing through his entire body. Fia thought she might have struck him with some sort of hindering spell, until Penbrook stumbled up beside her. Half asleep on his feet, he propped himself against the trunk of a tree, mustering just enough energy for an indolent grin.

“I think you’ve unwrinkled him.”

“Oh no.”

Of all things, she’d struck Sebastian with her mother’s spell to free clothes of their wrinkles. The spell was completely harmless, and using it made Fia feel just as silly as he thought her to be.

“Sable wrote of you in her spellbook.” Sebastian spoke without turning around, the lines of his back rigid with tension. “She went nauseatingly on and on for pages, and really, I can’t see what she saw in you.”

He meant to hurt her, but his words sparkled like a jewel. This glimpse he’d given of her mother—a softer side, someone who could more easily write down her feelings than share them aloud. Fia missed her so much, missed all the moments that would never be.

She’d always thought there’d be more time, especially for the little things. It wasn’t too much, was it, to want to hear her mother laugh again, so she might capture the sound in a silver charm? To wish for another hug, so she could remember the feel of her mother’s arms around her body? To have one more midnight breakfast of burnt toast and lavender tea, so she could tell her mother how much she loved her? Because that was the hardest thing of all. Fia had spoken her last words without knowing that was what they’d be.

Sebastian turned a fraction, his face cutting a sharp profile. “And now you’re sniffing back tears. Funny how I feel so very little.”