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She turned to the second photo on the page, this one of the entire family. Gerard stood beside his wife, Mistletoe Madbury, née Avondale, the children gathered around their mother in their too-perfect outfits with their too-perfect grins. Fia counted six siblings, all of them mirror images of their parents with their lifted chins and glossy hair, but she couldn’t determine which one was Penbrook—until she spotted the seventh child hidden in his father’s shadow. There was no mistaking that stubbornly arched brow.
“There you are,” Fia whispered, guessing Penbrook must have been no more than seven years old. He wasn’t quite as glossy as his siblings, holding a smile as if it pained him. It made her wonder if he was more complicated beneath the polished veneer he presented.
Feeling a little guilty for snooping, she reshelved the book and scooted down the row until she found all the compendia dedicated to grimoires. She was thumbing through a few volumes without finding what she was looking for when an exceptionally thin manuscript caught her eye, its spine too narrow for any text. Curious, she plucked it from the shelf and read the title stamped on its cover.
Rare Creatures: A Review.
Stated as if books were beasts—very much alive.
A shiver ran along her arm as she opened the book and sniffed, catching the unwanted scent of animal fur and deadwood, perhaps a warning that she wouldn’t like what she’d find.
Fia squinted at the index, the font ridiculously small, and there, listed among some of the most notoriously dark grimoires, was The Book of Ribs.
She flipped back through the book, dismayed to find only a single-page entry. But as Fia began to read, she realized she might not want to know more.
THE BOOK OF RIBS
Found on the grave of the late Arturo Lyons, thick with dirt but otherwise unmarked, The Book of Ribs is thought to have pushed itself up from the depths of the earth, where it had been buried with the deceased. Once identified, and with much haste, the grimoire was entrusted to the Thistledown archives for safekeeping.
Know this: The Book of Ribs is made of sacrifice. It wears the skin of its creator—Arturo himself—cut from his chest by his very own hand. Likewise, the parchment is thought to have come from the flesh of his back, stripped thinly from his body, time and time again, by his lover, Lenore Vidal. Arturo also offered the tome slivers of his bones, burned to ash and turned into the blackest of inks. And that is where the darkness lies—deep in the ink, pulled from his ribs. Waiting to be called upon.
The grimoire contains an assortment of spells and curses of indescribable and unheard-of power, which Arturo cast regardless of the body parts the book thirsted for in return. And though he amassed great wealth during his lifetime thanks to the spellbook, it is said that his acquaintances—even his lover—no longer recognized him for all he physically suffered in sacrifice.
When she reached the end of the passage, Fia slid the book back in its place, wiping her palms on her skirt as if she’d been holding the skin-bound, bone-inked Book of Ribs itself. A shudder rolled through her.
“Can I help you?”
The voice came from behind, and Fia spun round, hands to her skipping heart. “Oh, I’m just browsing.”
“Are you?” Mr. Sorrowmore said coolly, his white spiderlike fingers straightening the last book she’d touched.
“Um, yes?” Under his hawkeyed gaze, Fia felt strangely self-conscious.
“I’d just ask that you…” He pressed his lips together, oozing disapproval, then said, “Keep your fast fingers to yourself.”
Despite the warmth of the shop, Fia went cold all over. “What?” But she knew exactly what he meant. “You think I—”
“I think perhaps you should leave.”
He didn’t have to mention the article in the Herald for her to know that was why he’d approached her in this manner. The man thought she was the thief. (Little did he know there were three of them!) Horrified, Fia darted past him and out the door.
She had to get home—home, home, home—where she could turn the locks to the shop and never open them. The Cloaks would have to break down the door to get her, because she only felt more certain now that they would come, harboring the same suspicions as Mr. Sorrowmore. And maybe she was being dramatic, but it was a real fear: that Rowen Fallow would pin the theft of The Book of Ribs on Fia, never mind her innocence.
Head down against the wind, she ran, so intent on getting home, she didn’t see the person coming along the street from the opposite direction. They collided, her face right into the stranger’s chest, and when Fia stumbled back, a firm hand reached out to steady her.
“I… I’m sorry,” she mumbled, looking up, only to be startled all over again. It was the serious, sharp-mouthed young man from Thistledown—the last patron the librarian had escorted out of the building the night of the theft. Standing so close to him, she caught the soft scent of ink and paper and ash, as if he spent his nights writing spells by candlelight.
“Yes, well.” Only two words, spoken soft and low, but they sent a strange tingle down her spine. Carefully, he took back his hand, adjusting the ink-blotted package tucked under his arm.
Fia stared at the stranger for a long moment, shaken from the doomed spiral of her thoughts. While marveling over the chance of running into him, her words spilled out much too brightly. “I hope I didn’t clomp on your toes.”
“No.” This reply came as softly as his first, guarded. Apparently, he wasn’t one for words, and it only made her more curious.
“I—” Fia began, but really, what did she have to say to him?
He bowed his head, then stepped to the side so Fia could pass, giving no indication that he recognized her. But, of course, he wouldn’t have seen her that night. When she’d glimpsed him over the balustrade, she’d been cinched up tight in her concealment spell.
Before she could say anything else, he continued on his way, one sharp glance cast back. Unsettled, Fia watched him until he turned the corner, anticipating something—she didn’t know what—but he was gone, and so she shook off her lingering unease, hurrying the rest of the way home.
