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Wordlessly, Penbrook passed Andromeda the bag, but as soon as she loosened the drawstring, the book heaved out a breath. The foul, rotted scent swirled through the carriage.
“Oh, that’s awful.” In disgust, Andromeda tossed the bag back to Penbrook, who fumbled it from the air.
“Tuck it away!” Fia squealed as the pages rustled furiously, echoing from the depths of the sack. “Don’t let it out.”
Penbrook cinched the bag closed again and quickly returned it to his pocket.
They all let out a collective breath, and Andromeda said, “Let’s hope it won’t be so angry tomorrow.”
“I think that’s simply the book’s nature,” Penbrook said.
“What a disagreeable thing.”
“To be sure,” Fia said sleepily, tipping her head back, letting her eyes fall closed. Just for a moment.
But Penbrook’s and Andromeda’s soft murmurs lulled her deeper, and she drifted into some half-asleep state, catching only snippets of their conversation.
“I haven’t pinned all my hopes on the grimoire,” Andromeda admitted.
“And we shouldn’t,” Penbrook agreed.
“I’ve got an appointment with some more curse workers in the morning.”
“We’ll inspect the grimoire tomorrow night, then,” Penbrook reasoned.
Fia held on to wakefulness by only a thread, almost missing the faintest of words from Andromeda. “Penn… I’m sorry.”
Just as softly, he replied, “It’s not your fault, Dromeda.”
Fia’s heart gave an extra thump. Everything else faded to whispers and creaking wheels and the solitary hooting of an owl in the quiet of the night.
Sometime later, the carriage slowed, and the scent of Andromeda’s floral perfume faded.
Later still, the coach stopped again. Fia knew she should open her eyes and put on her slippers, but warm arms came around her instead, lifting her gently. Carrying her into the night, into her home.
Her head fell against Penbrook’s chest as he brought her upstairs, and she caught the scent of apples, because he used her soap and smelled like blossoms too, mixed with his perpetual scent of rain.
Carefully, he laid her down on her bed. Brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
“Penbrook,” she whispered into the darkness.
“Fia,” he might have said. Or maybe she was already asleep and dreaming.
CHAPTER 22
Penbrook had carried her to bed, and Fia could barely remember it. Which, in the gray light of day, was maybe for the best, so she wouldn’t be so enormously embarrassed.
The Bramble Ball almost didn’t seem real either—the way she’d frolicked hand in hand with Andromeda and twirled so easily with Penbrook through the grass—except she felt the soft ache in her calves from all their spinning. And she still wore her golden gown. If she closed her eyes again, maybe she would dream they were back beneath the willows—but as soon as she thought of sleep, she remembered the still unbroken curse.
Penbrook might have died in the night…
Bolting to her feet, Fia raced to the door. Then she was tipping into his room, his empty room—the bed neatly made, and no sign of the grimoire. Her eyes caught on all the many clocks, and she realized she’d somehow slept past his resounding alarms. Fia should have been relieved not to have stumbled upon his corpse, but her heart wouldn’t entirely settle until she saw him.
Quickly she swapped her gown for her crimson dress and an oversized cardigan, only noticing the enchanted golden butterflies were gone from her hair when she yanked a brush through it. Usually, a few flitted around upstairs, brightening the dim hallway, but none greeted her there today, and they weren’t fluttering in their favorite corner when she pushed into the spellshop either.
Penbrook had promised his illusions would last five to seven days, but time slipped by much too fast. Life was so precious. Not that the butterflies had been alive, no matter how real they’d seemed, but they were just another reminder of the transience of every moment.
The Madbury was still here, though—at least for now—and she sighed with immense relief at the sight of him. Still, he looked as fragile as a fading illusion, his skin nearly ashen, his shoulders curved as he bent over the shop’s ledger.
