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But that might be the most hopeless path of all.
Frustrated and cold, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her faded blue coat. That very first day, the Herald had reported the failure of all finding spells intended to track down the skin-bound book, and Fia couldn’t even call her mother’s book of enchantments, so what chance did she have of recovering a grimoire held by three magicians who absolutely didn’t want to let it go?
Unless…
Unless Penbrook Madbury really was as great a magician as everyone thought him to be. Maybe he could find it. And then she wouldn’t have to risk confronting Sebastian Smith unless it was absolutely necessary. The last thing she wanted to do was falsely accuse him the way others had done her.
Fia spun on her heel and hurried back to Sable Spells, ready to pounce on Penbrook, whether or not he was ready for her. But when she burst through the door, he was still with a customer—the last of the day, she hoped—who seemed intent on talking his ear off.
He eyed her curiously as she paced off to the side, not-so-discreetly mouthing something that once again looked like underfoot. Apparently, she was being a nuisance in her very own shop. She’d wait in the parlor, then, but first she stopped in the kitchen, swiping two overlarge teacups from the cupboard along with a bottle of some amber concoction her father had brought back from the Stardrop Isles. Though Fia didn’t indulge often, she figured fancy drinks all but flowed in the Madbury household. And maybe he’d want something like that tonight.
In the parlor, she set the cups and the bottle on a small table, flung off her coat, and kicked off her boots. With a glimmer of golden dust and an absent wave of her hand, a fire began to glow in the hearth. Not a very big one, but the best she could do. Almost immediately after, Finnick slinked into the room on silent paws, circled once, then stretched out on the rug before the flames. Wherever there was warmth, the marmalade cat was sure to follow.
“Hello, you.” Softly, she bumped his belly with her toes, starting him purring, then poured the spirit into the two cups. Settling herself on the side of the couch closest to the fire, Fia tugged the fluffy ivory blanket over her legs before she remembered Penbrook had been the last one to use it. It smelled like him, of soap and storms—which she had no business noticing. She kicked it off, gulping some of the heady drink and letting its sunlit-caramel flavor warm her instead. Thinking over the best way to voice her favor.
Eventually, Penbrook appeared, lounging against the doorframe with his arms crossed, already comfortable in her space. But then, he must have been able to fit in anywhere. “It looked like you wanted to talk to me.”
“I do.” Fia held out a cup, amber liquid swirling at the bottom, then realized it was the one she’d been drinking from, and swung the other cup forward.
“And now I’m thinking you want something from me.” Penbrook grinned in that unbothered way of his.
She tucked her feet up under her. “Couldn’t I just be offering you something to drink?”
“You could, but are you?” When she hesitated, that seemed answer enough, and he straightened, accepting the teacup. “Very fancy.”
“Better than drinking from the bottle.”
“Oh, I don’t mind drinking from the bottle. There are some occasions that absolutely call for it.”
“Those involving your father?” She bit her lip, but the words were already set free.
Penbrook moved to the emerald chair directly across from Fia and sat. Firelight danced over the sharp angles of his face as he took a large swallow of his drink, then turned his eyes to her. “Yes, my father. And my mother too, for that matter. They’re very exacting, and I am quite less than exact.”
That photograph Fia had seen of a younger Penbrook flashed into her mind, how he’d been overshadowed by his father. How he’d seemed to have been… forgotten. She didn’t know how it was possible, when he was so entirely unforgettable.
Unforgettable? The thought had come quite without her permission. Immediately she poured herself more to drink.
“Anyway,” he sighed, the word barely audible above the crackling of the fire. Sinking deeper into his chair, letting his eyes almost close, he looked perfectly relaxed. And yet Fia felt something stirring inside him, unspoken.
“Are you going to fall asleep?” she asked worriedly.
“Not if I can help it, but I make no promises.”
If she didn’t need to talk to him about finding The Book of Ribs, she wouldn’t have minded if he dozed off. It was… nice, just sitting near someone, here in this room, filling the empty spaces that had taken over her home.
“You can take your coat off, if you want, and your boots. You don’t always have to be so formal.”
Penbrook hesitated, his fine suit a defense—as if any layer he removed would make him much too vulnerable—but then he slipped off his coat, draping it over the arm of the chair. A lock of dark hair slanted across his forehead as he pulled off his boots.
Laughter bubbled up from Fia’s throat when he crossed his ankles; she couldn’t help it.
“Are those polka dots?”
Penbrook glanced down at his socks of midnight blue with what were definitely polka dots one shade lighter. He showed no embarrassment at all. “Much better than stripes, don’t you think?”
“You’re ridiculous.” Fia laughed harder, her whole body shaking with it, causing her drink to slosh over the rim of her glass. “Oh!”
But there was no splash. No spill. The amber liquid beaded like horizontal drops of rain falling toward Penbrook, and he licked them from the air.
