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Admittedly, she was also feeling more than a little curious, especially at the mention of consequences. No matter how Fia turned it over in her mind, she didn’t exactly know what to make of the incomplete exchange, but she reasoned it must have something to do with Penbrook’s curse. Which meant Andromeda knew he was in trouble.

Maybe she’d come all this way because she cared for Penbrook. As a friend.

Or as something more.

Fia didn’t want to examine why that thought brought another strange pang to her chest, and so she tucked the whole matter away to dissect later.

Because there were plenty of other things—more important things—rattling around in her head and demanding attention. Like everything that had happened at the cemetery—and what it meant that The Book of Ribs might be hidden at the Willows.

It still seemed impossible that Penbrook’s hand had sketched this old manor, which had been abandoned—gate locked, windows shuttered, ivy crawling—for at least a decade. But wasn’t a lonely estate the perfect location for thieves to hide as they released curses—for some mysterious reason—through the streets of Trivoris?

Fia had told Penbrook she couldn’t go to the place where her mother had died, but having the Cloaks show up at her home today full of suspicion reawakened the urgency of her task. She didn’t have the luxury of avoiding the Willows—not if she hoped to retrieve the grimoire.

The problem, of course, was how to gain access to the manor. The idea of breaking into a place, empty or otherwise, the way she’d sneaked into Thistledown sent her pulse racing. That was the very thing that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Fia flopped over on the bed, pulling a pillow to her chest, realizing Andromeda could have just as easily been lecturing her as Penbrook about actions and consequences. And she might have lain there all night feeling sorry for herself if her stomach hadn’t been so desperately growling.

Tiptoeing to her door, she listened at the crack, trying to determine if Penbrook and Andromeda were still in the parlor, sitting before the fire, cozy as could be and everything sorted out between them. She couldn’t hear a thing, though, so she crept downstairs only to discover they’d gone, the fire extinguished, empty teacups returned to the kitchen. They’d probably walked over to Poet’s Theory or some other such place, now that the rain had stopped falling.

Pretending their exclusion didn’t bother her, she fixed herself a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich, the crusts predictably blackened, and ate it right there at the counter. While she chewed, her thoughts circled back to that half-heard discussion, picking it apart for meaning, and one thing Andromeda said came to mind.

They can write what they want about me.

Fia realized there might be another way to get answers.

A pinch was all it took to rouse Penbrook the next morning. Fia delivered it to the back of his hand before all his clocks could start their simultaneous ringing. His eyes opened blearily, the skin beneath them smudged a worrisome plum overnight, as if he’d had to drag himself up from a deeper depth than the day before.

“I’d wake to something softer than that,” he said in a morning-graveled voice, lazily swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he rubbed the spot she’d nipped. “Much softer.”

As she made her way to the door, Fia’s footsteps stuttered, her mind caught by this idea of much softer things—like fingertips gentling over skin or lips pressing together—before she could banish the intrusive thoughts. Clearly, she hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night.

“The pinch seemed to work well enough.”

“I appreciate your efficiency.” Penbrook drew a small grin, reaching for the nearest clock and tinkering with a knob to stop it from chiming on the hour. “And to what do I owe the honor of this personal wake-up?”

“Beyond ensuring you hadn’t perished in the night?” Fia tried to say the words lightly, but her throat choked up, revealing her genuine concern. She hurried on. “Anyway, I was thinking about what else we could do to forestall your curse.”

Penbrook made quick work of the clocks on the nightstand and dresser and had just lifted one from the floor when he stilled. “We?”

“We’re helping each other, aren’t we?” Because there were two urgent tasks right now. Fia needed to clear her name just as desperately as before, but in good conscience—and considering his imminent death—she couldn’t accept Penbrook’s help without offering hers in return. Maybe together they’d find a way to keep Fia from a cell and Penbrook from a coffin.

“Yes.” The reply came hesitantly, and Penbrook seemed to want to say something more.

When the silence stretched between them instead, Fia finally filled it. “Look, I wish I knew more about curses, but I’ve only ever written spells.” That hadn’t stopped her from staying up all night attempting counter curses, but she’d only proven the task was beyond her ability. “So I was thinking of other things we might do. You said you’ve visited curse workers, and I’m not welcome at Thistledown—”

“Obviously.”

She hated that he so readily agreed, even if they both knew the truth of her situation. The idea of never visiting the great library again dropped her heart to her stomach—all those lovely rooms she’d always be barred from, all those wonderful books she’d never be allowed to access. But she’d grieve that loss later.

“My friend, Grace—I meant to introduce you. But she probably did it herself. I think she was going to ask you to magick a ladybug.” When Penbrook nodded, Fia continued, “Well, she works at her family’s antique shop, and it’s filled with spellbooks. Maybe one of them could help.” She didn’t mention that Grace’s father thought of himself as a historian of sorts—Grace called him a gatherer of gossip—so Miscellany also housed a vast collection of newssheets from the largest provinces in Orium—Trivoris, of course, and Belshore and Silten.

And Fantillian.

If Fia happened to poke through some of the recent editions and find mention of Andromeda and Penbrook, well, it was public record, so she wouldn’t really be snooping. She’d just have the answers to her questions, and that would be that.

And so Fia and Penbrook readied for the day, and though she felt a swell of hopefulness as they stepped outside, it slowly faded as they walked down Carrow Lane. Her neighbors had decorated for fall, stringing cranberry garlands from shop windows and wrapping leafy strands around lampposts. Some had set pumpkins on their stoops—but every gourd Fia and Penbrook passed seemed to have rotted overnight, the pulpy innards gone black and foul, buzzing with flies.

When Fia wrinkled her nose nervously, Penbrook said, “You’re thinking the ruin of curses has struck again, aren’t you? That The Book of Ribs is responsible.”