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Determined to leave that particular conversation behind them, she touched the closest of the old wooden bookcases that stretched all the way to the ceiling, resuming the tour. Nestled into the wall between the bookcases was a fireplace and a tufted chair. “Here’s where you’ll find a few of the classic texts. They contain perfectly serviceable spells of a general nature, but mostly they just gather dust.”

Penbrook’s gaze lingered on the shelves before he turned to Fia. “Of course, because your customers come for your customized spellwork.”

“Well, once upon a time they came for my mother’s spellwork, but now they’re left with me.” Fia bit her lip as soon as the words escaped. She hadn’t intended to share anything so personal, this black hole her mother’s absence had left in her life and the way Fia worried she would never be as good a spellwright, even though she so sorely hoped for it.

Penbrook’s brows drew together, and she didn’t want him looking at her that way. With pity. He surprised her, though, sympathy transforming into jest. “You mean, they’re left with me.”

“So…” It took a moment to absorb his words. “You’re up for it?” She tried to match his lighthearted tone, but she wondered if she could really go through with this entire plan.

Leaving Sable Spells in his hands—in anyone else’s hands—felt like giving away a piece of herself. Or maybe it was more like giving away a piece of her mother, and Fia had little enough to hold on to as it was. It was times like this, when she thought too much of what she’d lost, that she longed for her mother’s spellbook the most.

“I think I’ll manage,” Penbrook replied dryly.

Just to be sure, she stayed with the Madbury the next few hours, shadowing him as he helped his first customer and the next, so closely that when he turned, reaching for a satchel of fortune stones, he bumped right into her.

He mumbled something under his breath that sounded very much like “You’re underfoot.”

She must have misheard him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re underfoot,” he repeated gladly.

Fia glared up at him as he cast a small gust of wind, causing her to stumble back a step, out of his way. She might have protested if the breeze hadn’t smelled so sweet, like flowers caught in the rain.

With his pathway cleared, Penbrook collected the bag of stones, then spun back to the waiting customer, an easy smile on his face as he handed them over. “Here you are, Miss Sandoval.”

Fia gaped at him. She didn’t even know the customer’s name, though the young woman had come in before, and somehow the Madbury had already learned it. Perhaps… she should ease up on him a bit.

“Thank you,” Miss Sandoval cooed at Penbrook. “I think my fortune has already turned for the better.”

Fia smothered a laugh as Penbrook collected payment and Miss Sandoval went on her way—but their exchange wasn’t the only one to go smoothly.

“Oh, who’s this now?” people asked, unused to seeing anyone new behind the counter, and Penbrook chattered away to their delight.

But business only trickled in, and it soon became clear Fia didn’t need to be there.

“As I mentioned yesterday”—she took her coat from the cabinet and slipped on her boots—“I have… some things I need to do, but—”

“You don’t have to stay on my account,” he said, that cursed brow raised and almost daring her to go.

On the last button, she paused. “Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Madbury?”

He made an elaborate show of straightening the display of Dahl’s Love Drops. “I’m only trying to do the job you hired me for, Miss Ives.”

And so, smiling to herself and trusting Penbrook wouldn’t burn the spellshop down in her absence, she left.

Unfortunately, the very first place Fia hoped to go to begin her research on The Book of Ribs was also the very last place she ought to visit—Thistledown Library. She couldn’t imagine facing any of those librarians again, not after what had been printed about her. Jasper Tremaine had probably provided evidence against her too—all the letters she’d written requesting access to the archives and his denial. Her desperation would seem like a motive.

So Fia headed out into the chill of the day, crunching through small mountains of leaves that had fallen overnight—not just on Carrow Lane but on every street she traveled until she reached Never-Ending Story, the quaint bookstore on Oleander Way. It seemed even stranger then, how widespread the abscission was this early in the season. She hoped the trees didn’t have oak wilt—she remembered Dermot lecturing her about that once, when he’d caught her pruning a branch in a less-than-ideal month.

As Fia stepped through the entrance to the bookstore, its cozy warmth pushed aside thoughts of the trees, and for a moment, even thoughts of what she’d come for. If she wanted, she might browse the sections holding fairy tales, finding new worlds to become lost in. Ones with the happy endings her mother thought silly.

The proprietor, Desmond Sorrowmore, acknowledged her with a sharp cut of his eyes. Not at all the way he’d politely greeted her when she’d come in with Sable. It looked like he wanted to speak to her, but he was already helping another customer, so Fia slipped down the rows toward the back of the shop, hoping he’d forget about her entirely.

Scanning the shelves, she came across a variety of texts on the science and history of magic itself—how it manifested in the brain, the evolution of spellwork, and the ancestry of power. Fia paused with her finger on the spine of Magical Bloodlines Through the Years, wondering what the author, Dr. Felix Donovan, might have to say about a particular Madbury bloodline. Before she could stop herself, she pulled the massive book into her arms.

Unsurprisingly, there was a thick section on the Madburys, dating back to Bartholomew Madbury—the first of the Mad Magicians—who was said to have become so lost in his magic, he could no longer tell illusion from reality. The chapter ended with one of his most recent descendants, Gerard Madbury, who kept an iron grip on his magic and was, if Fia calculated the dates correctly, very likely Penbrook’s father. Two photographs accompanied the brief biography, and she inspected the portrait of Gerard first. Though father and son looked much the same, with their dark hair and eyes, there was something so disdainful about Gerard’s expression that Fia suspected anything Penbrook did would disappoint him.

For a moment she forgot to be offended by his earlier comments and hoped his role at Sable Spells absolutely scandalized his father.