Page 6

CHAPTER 3

Alarm crashed like a wave through Fia’s body. There was no way anyone responsible for the great library would forget to lock the doors to the archives. Instead, Fia told herself, a librarian must have lingered after hours, perhaps taking inventory or working on some exhaustive research project… yet the quiet beyond somehow felt more ominous than that.

Fia nearly turned on her heel and fled back down the stairs. She could practically hear Grace screaming at her to go, but she might never have this opportunity again. As it was, it had taken everything in her to come this far, and now the archives were right there, beyond the door that would otherwise always remain closed to her.

Her mother’s spellbook might be in reach.

Not that she expected to find it here, with all the old tomes so painstakingly collected over hundreds of years. Her mother’s book wouldn’t be of note, and it was hardly dangerous—although it was invaluable, at least to Fia. Anyway, as she’d tried to explain to the librarians, what she wanted to find tonight was a spell, one that would lead her to the missing spellbook, since none she’d found, and none she’d written, had been successful. The right spell, one exceptionally powerful and precise, had to be here—it just had to be—in this sacred space lauded for guarding the most formidable magic anywhere in Orium. Because if it wasn’t, did such a spell exist at all?

At the top of the steps, gripped with the fear of failure, she debated: go foolishly forward or go regretfully home. Neither choice appealed to her, but she didn’t think she could live with any more regret. Fia was already choking on it—all the days in the past she hadn’t said everything she’d wanted, all the days ahead her mother would be crushingly absent.

And so she edged forward, closer to the light and closer to the gargoyles. She’d hoped to charm her way past them, the feather in her hair magicked so she might pass herself off as a rook—though admittedly, she worried the spell she’d written was more than her unreliable magic could manage—but it seemed someone had already persuaded the formidable guardians to unlock the doors. Instead of standing sentry as she’d expected, with their overlarge wings extended and crossed in front of the entrance like swords, the gargoyles crouched with their claws over their eyes and their wings folded at their backs, as if they’d been compelled to turn away, leaving the archives vulnerable.

It went against their very purpose.

Fia swallowed. She couldn’t imagine the strength of the magic that would have been able to command such a thing of these creatures. She looked back and forth between their tall, twisted forms. They were so much larger than she’d imagined, and so frighteningly beautiful, they set her heart racing. Knobby vertebrae protruded from their rounded backs, and as she inched by, clutching her gargoyle charm, she swore she could hear the creaking of their spines, the grating of their bent necks straining to turn.

But no taloned hand lashed out to stop her.

And then she was past them, trailing a ragged breath of relief that left her giddy. At the doors—these glorious, fabled doors she had feared she’d never see—she stopped, taking in the striking sight. A hand as careful as her mother’s had carved beloved spellbooks into the dark wood. Instead of sitting obediently on shelves, they swirled in the air, drawing her gaze higher, shifting her perspective so the door seemed to stretch to impossible heights.

Reverently she touched the wood, pressing one eye to the crack, and peered into the archives she wanted so desperately to see. Everything was still except for the flickering glow of light deep within the shelves and the rustling of the books, all of them more magical, more alive, than the ones housed on the lower floors. Their many magics pulsed through the air, a tangle of whispers and the scent of burnt vanilla and ink like blood. Fia’s cheeks flushed at the almost drowsy way the magic reached for her, aching to be used. Tempting her forward.

She tapped the pad of her finger against the sharp point of the feather in her hair, the bright pain enough to clear her dizzy head.

And then, despite the risk of being spotted by whoever had slipped into the archives before her, she tiptoed into the magnificent room, hoping her concealment spell still held. Trying not to think of what would happen if she were caught trespassing—that the Cloaks would be summoned to arrest her. They’d immediately transport her to the northernmost key of the Stardrop Isles, and lock her away in the Azantian Hold for who knew how long.

Lifting her chin in defiance, Fia looked up. The domed ceiling arched like ribs, a cradle above all the books on all the many shelves. They perfectly framed the wheel window that overlooked the night. She thought of the gargoyle sentinel on the other side of the stained glass, caught a flicker of movement like the swipe of a wicked tail.

Blinking away the image—hoping the gargoyle wasn’t waking—Fia looked up and up three stories more. Beautifully carved bookcases curved around the towerlike room, accessible by ladder and rimmed with narrow iron walkways accented with the statues of renowned magicians: the Songs, the Archlights, the Madburys. A twist of wonder and dismay filled her at once. Even if she had the whole place to herself and could walk boldly down the rows, there weren’t enough hours in the night to search all these books, hoping to chance upon the right spell. She’d set herself an impossible task like a stubborn girl in a fairy tale.

Display cases lined a far wall. Or maybe they were cages, where some of the most powerful grimoires must have been contained. Under key and ward, they remained silent and still, but Fia suspected the quiet only hid their true natures—their potential to wreak the worst kind of havoc.

If placed in the wrong hands.

Maybe, she begrudgingly admitted to herself, it wasn’t entirely unreasonable that the archives weren’t more widely accessible. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the intentions of books; it was that she didn’t always trust the intentions of people.

Like the person in the archives with her right now.

What sort of magic were they looking for?

Footsteps sounded, and in the softly echoing chamber she couldn’t quite tell from where—she only knew they were coming closer. Uncertain if she could rely on her concealment spell, she ducked down the nearest aisle, watching as a light appeared, bobbing from one row into the next. A pale hand held the ball of light aloft—all that Fia could see of the dark-cloaked figure, even when they slowly turned, peering in her direction. She shrank against the shelf, willing herself smaller.

Beneath the cloak’s hood, a mask of shadows blurred the figure’s features. Definitely not a librarian, but then, she’d already suspected that.

It was, of course, a magician.

What she couldn’t guess was what they were doing here. It seemed a strange coincidence that a magician had broken into the previously impenetrable archives the very night she had done the same.

Curious when she should have been cautious, Fia watched the magician glide down the aisle, cloak rippling, steps unhurried and sure. Even still, it was clear the magician, like Fia, didn’t belong here, and they absolutely wouldn’t be pleased if she stumbled upon them.

No matter how much she longed to dip into each and every book before her, stealing every hour she could until dawn, it had been a mistake entering the archives knowing someone else was lurking in the darkness. What had she been thinking?

She peered again at the magician, who continued their slow prowl through the shelves, now and again touching the spine of a book, as if learning its contents without ever opening the pages. Then, reaching the end of a row, they slipped out of sight.

This was her chance to sneak away unnoticed, but it would also mean leaving without a spell—and she wanted, no, she needed to be bold, now if ever. Fia eyed the nearest shelf, her rebellious heart refusing to carry her toward the doors. The books shook their pages at her interest, except for one wedged behind the others, as if it had escaped from its cage and meant to hide. She reached out, tracing the strangely raised title—The Book of Ribs—instantly disliking the dreadfully silky feel of it, when a soft rustling issued from somewhere behind her. Startled, she turned.

A wink of light appeared ahead, sending her scrambling backward. The magician had moved so swiftly, so soundlessly, she hadn’t noticed them circling the room. Except, when Fia glanced in the other direction, she saw a light there too, only a row down from where it had been before. Her troubles had doubled. One hooded figure hovered before her, one behind, still at a distance.