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As were Fia’s friends.

Trailing threads of golden webbing, Andromeda, Grace, and Montrose ran down the garden path from Thistledown, their faces bright with relief.

“You’re lucky you’re all right!” Grace swooped in, snatching Fia up in a hug. “I would never have forgiven you if you’d been hurt.”

Montrose clapped a still-shaky Penbrook on the back, nearly toppling him. “Sorry, Madbury!”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Penbrook rasped, steadying himself, then glanced sidelong at Fia with those blue-ringed eyes. “Just a little weathered.”

Fia’s eyes widened as he winced out a laugh.

“I felt the very moment you broke the curse!” Andromeda cried, holding out her hand, ring finger bare, the amethyst engagement ring clicking against all the rest on the ribbon around her neck. In the darkness, she shone almost as brightly as the pretty stone—cheeks once again rosy, hazel eyes twinkling. She spun a circle so her skirt billowed around her, dancing because the night couldn’t end without it.

Penbrook caught Andromeda’s eye on the second rotation, and they traded small, celebratory smiles for the curse they’d suffered—and defeated—together.

“If I may.” Montrose bowed before Grace, tugging her toward him and turning her round and round as lightning crackled overhead.

One hand extended, Penbrook reached for Fia.

“How is it that I’m the one left dancing alone?” Andromeda laughed, not seeming to mind in the slightest as she continued to twirl.

“There’s a first time for everything.” Penbrook pulled Fia closer.

And as she tipped her face up to him, she whispered, “Like writing a different ending.”

TRIVORIS HERALD

TWILIGHT AT THISTLEDOWN: A RECKONING

BY DOMINIK HONESTLY

Goodness!

Despite the absolute danger surrounding all the notable guests at the Masque of Parchment and Ink, dare one suggest last night’s events were entirely delicious in their conclusion? A crowd resplendent in black-and-white fashion. An immobilizing lacework of golden spiderwebs deviously spun. A magician’s sinister plot thwarted by the very dust-fingered spellwright originally thought to be responsible for the troubles befalling Trivoris. (Though we were never in doubt of her innocence, now were we?)

And let us not forget a beastly grimoire was also mysteriously returned to the archives from which it had been so stealthily stolen.

Honestly, one might think there is more to the story than what our brave bystanders witnessed, but those in the know appear to be keeping that knowing to themselves.

A final note of wariness and warning: Sebastian Smith—or perhaps, more appropriately, he might be called the Spidersmith, for the release of those golden fiends—has vanished without a trace. Let us all, like our good gargoyles, be on guard.

EPILOGUELATE NOVEMBER

In the weeks following the Masque of Parchment and Ink, Fia had been tempted to cast a finding spell for Sebastian Smith. She had so many more questions for him, and she thought maybe he’d have questions for her.

Or maybe he would just want to curse her again.

So she left him alone. If he wanted to find her, he knew where she was.

At home.

At Sable Spells.

After the curse of ash, Fia had feared the shop would never again be the same, and in some ways, it wasn’t.

Sometimes when she lifted a book from the shelf, a small scattering of dark dust floated down from the pages. But the ash only made her think of Sebastian—and her mother. They would always be connected to each other, and when she watched the dust motes drift, she felt strangely connected to them too. Soot spun like a brief memory, and she might glimpse her mother’s profile in the falling specks, or unexpectedly catch the scent of roses when it ought to have smelled of ash. Turning the pages of a book, she might hear the same high notes of the piano that had played when she’d danced with Sebastian at the Willows, and a shiver would run along her spine.

“Haunting the nook again?” Penbrook asked her now, arms crossed, head tilted as he leaned languidly against the shelf.