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And then she was home, charging up the stairs, gathering her breath. Fia only slowed in the hallway as she closed the distance to the bathroom door and lifted her hand to rap on the wood. The smallest moan of indecision escaped her lips.

She didn’t know what would be worse—finding the Madbury dead or having to knock on the door only to find him alive and bathing.

Carefully, she set her ear to the door.

And heard him humming.

He was completely oblivious to her panicked brain or her presence, thank goodness, and so she backed away. Sneaking downstairs again and feeling ridiculous. How had she let herself get so worked up over the Madbury that she’d almost barreled in on him while he lounged in the tub?

When he finally strode into the shop, Fia’s face prickled with heat, even though they were both more appropriately dressed now—she in a pale blue dress that matched her eyes, Penbrook suited up once again, his jacket black, his waistcoat gray.

She couldn’t help thinking it looked like something he might wear to a funeral.

Or get buried in.

“Here,” she said, reining in her runaway thoughts, and held out the paper bag from the nameless café. “If you’re hungry.”

“Famished.” He dug through the sack, sliding out an eggy, cheesy pastry. “Thank you.”

“Mmm.” She’d already shoved her pie into her mouth. Without the burnt bits she always managed when cooking, it tasted heavenly.

Penbrook pulled out the two stools behind the counter, and they sat side by side, watching the golden butterflies he’d illusioned as they ate. A few of the enchanted insects had taken to a sunlit corner, fluttering through hazy beams. Others perched upon the shelves like the prettiest ornaments.

When there was nothing left of their meal but crumbs, Fia wiped them away. “Should we get started?”

“If we must.”

Riffling through the drawers in the counter, she drew out several loose sheets of paper and shuffled through them, frowning at each of the finding spells she’d written. Uncertainly, she released them to Penbrook, wondering what a magician would think of her work and wishing she didn’t care.

“Don’t you keep a spellbook?” His dark brows came together, clearly surprised that the pages weren’t bound.

Fia shrugged, though he couldn’t see it. He’d already bowed his head over her pages, eyes tracking her every word. There was no telling his thoughts from his concentrated expression, and her stomach twisted into knots.

“I meant to burn them,” she admitted when he didn’t say anything for what felt like a long stretch of time. Not bothering to mention that she always burned her spells. That she felt closer to her magic when she kept it in her head and heart instead of stiffly lined on the page.

His head snapped up. “Whatever for?”

She rubbed at an inkblot stain on the counter. “These spells didn’t bring me any closer to my mother’s book… and that’s all I want.” The last words fell out, too late to stuff away.

“You miss her,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question, and her feelings weren’t something she quite knew how to explain anyway. The missing was there, a tender spot inside her like a permanent bruise, but maybe Penbrook knew something of how that felt, even with his parents living. Someone could be right there and still seem very far away.

“She never let me look inside and see her scribblings.” Given the private nature of personal spellbooks, that wasn’t especially unusual among acquaintances, but Fia had always thought, mother to daughter, there might be more openness between them. “And I wanted… I still want to see inside her.”

Fia let out a small laugh. It probably sounded silly. There was no seeing inside someone. There was only what they wanted to show you.

Just like Fia and Penbrook. For all the things they’d shared, she knew there was so much more they hadn’t. And it was a curious feeling—that she wanted to learn more.

Penbrook brushed a lock of still-damp hair from his eyes. “I can say I’ve seen quite enough of my father’s inner workings. Sometimes it’s better not knowing someone’s every last thought.”

“Maybe,” Fia said. “Still, I want”—I need—“to find her spellbook.”

“Does it really mean so much to you?” he asked carelessly.

Her lips flattened. She held out her hand. “Let me see yours.”

His hand floated over his coat protectively, right where he must keep his book. Inside pocket. Near his heart. “What?”