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“You’re rustling,” Penbrook said along the way.

Fia patted her coat pocket, from which there indeed came a rustling, more noticeable now, away from the bustle of town. “It’s a newssheet I grabbed from the café.”

“Anything of interest?”

“I thought you didn’t read the paper.”

“Maybe there’s news of the thieves,” Penbrook said, and they stopped on the path.

It was too much to expect they’d been apprehended, the grimoire confiscated, her name cleared. That didn’t stop Fia from hoping. Pulling the paper from her pocket, she found it a bit more crumpled and creased than it had been before, but she could still easily make out the glaring headline she’d already glimpsed that morning. “It seems you aren’t the only one who’s cursed.”

Tipping the umbrella to shield the paper, Penbrook angled toward her, his chin just grazing her ear as they both squinted to read.

TRIVORIS HERALD

A RUIN OF CURSES

BY DOMINIK HONESTLY

Almost a week has passed since The Book of Ribs was stolen from the Thistledown archives, and the Cloaks appear no closer to cornering the culprit. And if that isn’t worrisome enough—a criminal at large!—it would appear this ill-intentioned thief has cracked open the grimoire, unleashing the very ruin of curses we feared.

Let us consider the night all the leaves fell in unison from the trees throughout Trivoris, which we must agree was an entirely unnatural occurrence. And our first warning.

In Bramble, fires blazed in the Highdear apple orchard, the Meadowlark vineyards, and the Serenity orange groves on the very same morning, the flames almost impossible to stamp out—the only grace being that no one was harmed.

The same cannot be said for the terror rippling through Harrow, where dozens have reported waking from horrible nightmares, all confirmed to have the same dark dreamscape, desolate and quiet, struck again and again by violent bolts of lightning. And in the Glory District, every pitcher of water left on a nightstand was said to have gone dry overnight, and residents awakened with an unquenchable thirst.

Honestly, if this villain isn’t apprehended, and soon, it seems certain that Trivoris is doomed. Perhaps the Cloaks need to turn their attention back to the dust-fingered spellwright from Wakesend, where, you may have noted, a curse has yet to be independently released. Coincidence? One thinks not.

Everything went a little fuzzy in Fia’s head as she tried to make sense of things. “A ruin of curses.” She couldn’t at all understand why someone would do such a thing. She’d most often heard of curses striking individuals, or maybe family lines, not an entire province.

“These aren’t curses, and Trivoris isn’t doomed,” Penbrook scoffed. “Trees lose their leaves when the weather gets colder. Everyone wakes thirsty in the morning. Really, what kind of reporting is this? Mr. Dominik Honestly has connected one thing to another as it suits him.”

Fia nodded without a word, not in agreement but dully, too stunned to do anything else.

He looked at her more closely, worry creasing his brow. “You’ve gone quite pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said, even as the paper shook in her hand.

“Here, give that to me.” Bobbling the umbrella, Penbrook snatched the newssheet, folding it sloppily with one hand and tucking it into the bottomless pocket of his still-smooth coat. “It’s all just gossip and nonsense. No one believes these things. Goodness knows, half the things they write about me aren’t true.”

“And the other half?”

Penbrook grinned. “Much too truthful. But,” he emphasized, “I’m sure you didn’t steal the grimoire.”

Stated as though he really believed her.

As they started up the hill again, Fia tilted her head, surprised by this trust no one save her mother and Grace had ever given her so completely, and grateful for his attempted reassurance. Except it wasn’t mention of the dust-fingered spellwright from Wakesend that bothered her—or rather it did, but it wasn’t what bothered her most.

It wasn’t the fires either, though they were worrisome enough—the one Grace had witnessed and, horribly, two more on the very same day. What slithered through her mind was the thought of those lightning-struck dreams.

She didn’t want to talk about any of that, though, and so she said nothing about what bothered her, letting Penbrook sweep every word of the article away. They were here to search for The Book of Ribs, and the sooner they had it in hand, the sooner these curses—and she fully believed that was what they were—would end.

“All right,” she said, smothering her unease. “Can you cast your spell from here, do you think?”

From the top of the small hill, Fortune’s End spread out before them, rows of gray tombstones laced with moss and bow-headed angels of pitted stone, gone-brown leaves slick with rain, and so many trees, their branches misted in the rolling fog. To the west, the town sprawled, seeming very far away from their quiet position.

“Hold this,” Penbrook directed, passing Fia the umbrella. “A little higher,” he added when the spokes bumped against the top of his head.