Page 5

If Jasper Tremaine regretted anything, Fia suspected it would only be the time spent drafting the note and signing his name. She couldn’t think of him without her temper flaring, and only as a cool wind gusted by did the heat leak out of her once again.

Fia shifted the books in her arms, looking up and up at the vertical expanse of stone to the wheel window high above. The amber glass shone with a light that seemed almost to pulse from the lofted chamber of the Thistledown archives within. A lone gargoyle—all stone and grimace—perched above the round window, just off-center, when everything else about the library aligned with such symmetry. One of its claws gripped the ledge it sat upon while the other had crept lower, talons curling toward the frame of the window with a ferocious protectiveness.

Fia brushed her fingers against the velvet ribbon at her throat, from which hung a small stone gargoyle, the symbol for the archives. Her mother had given her the cherished charm, and she wore it always. She loved the idea that the gargoyle guarded her heart, and that in some way it meant Sable still did too.

The creature rested heavily against her chest, wings twisted at its back. It was a beastly little thing, chin pointed, claws sharp, eyes two dark sockets, with a bumpy spine and a mouth full of wicked teeth. It twitched at the small attention she paid it, asleep but aware.

My own sort of protection, Fia reminded herself, then stepped uneasily forward.

On either side of the double doors, vertical banners of black and pale gold flapped in the wind, announcing the upcoming gala—the Masque of Parchment and Ink—that would be held on All Hallows’ Eve. Security would be impossible that night, and likely for the days leading up to it as well, as rare spellbooks were transferred from private collections to be auctioned off to the wealthy guests. Another reason Fia had decided to strike tonight, despite her nerves tingling so acutely.

She’d visited the library countless times before, but as she pushed through the doors this evening, it felt different, as if the building had pulled back the delicate skin it usually wore, revealing its bones to her. Maybe it was the late hour and the absence of other patrons. Or the way the lamps flickered in the atrium as she entered, casting shadows in unfamiliar patterns, a latticework over the walls that drew her eye to all the secret alcoves and corners.

Ahead, a librarian looked down from where she stood behind the reference desk, which had always reminded Fia of a wide wooden throne. Carved with branch and thorn and rook, the octagonal counter perched on a ridiculously tall dais that required a three-step spiral staircase to ascend, granting the librarians an elevated view of their domain. The one working tonight—Ilene Carrington, according to the nameplate on the low display—had curly hair and warm brown hands that clasped together as Fia approached. “We’re just now closing.” A little smile and an obvious flick of her eyes to the clock on a far wall.

But of course, Fia had heard the bells ringing. She knew the hour.

Fia craned her neck, feeling very small under the eye of the librarian. “I only need a moment.” She held out the books she’d brought along (not that Ilene could reach them from the peak of the desk), hoping the nervous tremor in her hands only looked like a shiver left over from the night’s cold touch. She cast a cautious glance at the rook seated on the golden perch on the desk. He pecked at his feathers, watching Fia from the corner of his shiny eye as she continued, “I didn’t want these to go overdue.”

Ilene Carrington’s smile grew warmer, glad for the borrowed books to return home. “Very good.” Her hand moved over some button or lever that Fia couldn’t see, opening up a small compartment at the front of the raised desk. “If you’ll set them in the cubby.”

“Of course. Here you go.” Fia deposited the books, hands shaking even more furiously now that they were empty.

The compartment seamlessly closed. A soft clicking touched the quiet, some internal mechanism lifting the books. When they reached the top, Ilene scooped them up, looking over their spines and covers, ensuring they’d returned in the same condition as when they’d left.

“Good night, then,” Fia said too loudly, in an effort to emphasize her departure.

The librarian offered a distracted farewell, then turned her back to Fia as she painstakingly set the books, one by one, into the receptacle that would magically document their return and whisk each volume back to its proper place on the shelf.

Fia had only moments.

But the rook still watched her with those intelligent eyes. They fell on the feather in her hair, and she held her breath, silently pleading for her small magic to work reliably for once, until finally, miraculously, he glanced away.

Snatching the opportunity while Ilene fastidiously worked, Fia dashed down the nearest row of shelves, moving as silently as Skye Blackwood, then ducked around the endcap, flattening her back to the wood. She couldn’t believe she was really doing this, but she had no other choice. Her stomach twisted with nerves, and she pressed her fists to her belly as she peeked around the corner, catching sight of the librarian processing the last book. She only hoped Ilene, who was just then glancing over her shoulder, would see the empty space where Fia had been and conclude she had gone.

Fia held her breath, and finally Ilene turned her gaze to the rook.

“Let’s close up for the night, shall we, Wordwing?”

The rook cawed softly and hopped to the librarian’s shoulder as she drew a ring of keys from her pocket and descended the great desk’s spiral staircase, one quick twist around.

With a touch of the feather in her hair—that stolen allegiance with Thistledown—and a swish of her fingers through the air, Fia cast a shrouding spell, one she’d practiced many times in the preceding days but still hadn’t perfected. It fell upon her at once, a sudden cinching around her ribs, like a corset pulled much too tightly. As if shadows made of ink had crawled out from their darkest crevices and bound themselves to her body.

“Not so tight,” she pleaded breathlessly, and the pinching eased by the smallest degree.

Concealment spells were particularly tricky for anyone, but especially for Fia, who was dust-fingered. When she used magic, she tended to spark. Just a little. It wasn’t uncommon, exactly, for those just coming into their magic. But Fia was eighteen, and now it just felt like a spectacle. Maybe she needed more discipline, but she just couldn’t help thinking magic was a wonder and defied a too-firm hold.

As she backed deeper into the shelves, finding her way to the western staircase, she trailed the tiniest flecks of golden dust. She waved her hand through the air, hoping to dispel the dust and avoid discovery as she sneaked up the marble steps to the second floor. It was darker here, the lamps already dimmed.

Cautiously, Fia peeked over the balcony to the ground floor below with its labyrinth of shelves overstuffed with books, the long tables meant for research and reading, and the reference desk at its heart. It seemed forever and a day passed, but eventually Ilene and her rook ushered out the last patron—a tall, dark-haired young man who glanced upward for a moment, affording Fia a shadowed view of his serious face, mouth cut as sharply and beautifully as a statue. And then he and the librarian were gone, striding through the doors, which would be locked with both key and ward.

When the magic set, evidenced by a rushing of air that shivered down Fia’s spine, she smiled. She was alone in Thistledown, and two more flights up, the archives awaited her.

Fia all but flew up the stairs, hopping over the velvet rope that dissuaded anyone from visiting the most-secured floor before she could consider if a ward might throw her back. But nothing prevented her progress, likely because most patrons respected the unspoken rule not to pass—and the librarians believed no one could get by the gargoyles anyway. She hoped she was the exception.

Before doubt could stop her, Fia swung around the last curve of the staircase, only slowing when she reached the uppermost landing. But it wasn’t the sight of those beautiful, fabled doors reaching to the ceiling or the stony-eyed glare of the gargoyles that startled her still; it was the ribbon of light spilling through the impossibly cracked-open door to the archives.

It seemed she wasn’t alone at all.