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“Maybe we are too,” Fia said. “Wanting its secrets.”
Firelight flickered over their faces, darkening the shadows that were already there beneath Penbrook’s eyes as he asked, “Then what shall we give it?”
CHAPTER 24
Penbrook’s gaze almost felt like a caress until Fia realized he was probably considering what bit of her The Book of Ribs might like best. She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and threw it at him.
“What was that for?” he asked, affronted.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She waved her hand, indicating his entire pensive posture. “Like you’re deciding what piece of me to cut off in sacrifice.”
“I would never presume to choose for you,” he said, a serious look in his eyes that she didn’t recognize—and didn’t know what to do with. He’d had choices taken from him, most notably his father deciding he’d be the key to uniting the Madbury and Dahl families, but there were probably so many other times his parents had pushed Penbrook into something without caring what he wanted.
“And I won’t choose for you,” she said.
Penbrook regarded her, recognizing this was a bigger promise they offered each other. He opened his mouth, then seemed to reconsider what he’d planned to say. It was neither the time nor place to talk about promises—not with a volatile grimoire panting at their feet.
“So, what will it be?” he asked, much too lightly for the task before them.
“I don’t know.” Fia released a small laugh, because having a choice didn’t necessarily make it any easier to choose. Not when they were taking such a risk.
“A drop of blood?” Penbrook pondered.
The grimoire seethed out a thirsty breath, its pages rustling like tongues. It would gladly lap up their blood, let the droplets sink deep into its pages so this vibrant part of them would become a part of the book. Irrevocably.
She touched the gargoyle charm at her neck, its bared teeth sharp enough to pierce her skin if only she pressed down hard enough. The cut would be swift—a splash of red from finger to book—and the lock would open for them.
It seemed like a small enough thing to offer, and also like much too much. It was an intimate, elemental part of them that she knew better than to mix with dark magic. The gargoyle’s wings shifted under her hand, a warning that reinforced her doubts. “Not blood.”
Penbrook frowned, as if it were the only thing he’d considered and he hadn’t imagined her objecting. “What, then?”
Fia looked at the grimoire, at the burnt threads of hair in the corner barely holding the seamed flaps of skin together.
As she’d wanted to do ever since an errant strand had fallen into his eyes, she leaned that much closer to Penbrook, her fingers carding through his hair and pushing it from his forehead. And maybe this gesture was even more irresponsibly dangerous than conferring with the grimoire itself. Her pulse leapt, and she was slow to draw away, wondering if she was imagining the tilt of his head into her palm.
“We can sacrifice a lock of hair,” she whispered.
Penbrook rocked back. “Mine?” Because of course he was precious with his perfect strands, even when they weren’t so perfect. He touched his hair protectively, ineffectually smoothing it back in place. “What about yours? You have more to spare.”
Fia glared at him, and then, most ridiculously, she laughed—a necessary, unhinged release of everything built up inside her. “Why not?” She tugged on the ends of her long, tangled strands. “I do have more to spare. Fetch the scissors!”
When Penbrook only looked at her in bafflement, she pushed to her feet. “Never mind. I’ll get them myself.”
She popped in and out of the shop, lovingly patting Finnick on the head and herding him into the kitchen when she spied him in the hall. Best to keep him away from the songbird, she thought, and filled his bowls before closing him in with a promise of treats in the morning. Scissors in hand, she then returned to the parlor.
Penbrook had risen to his feet, grim-faced as he met her at the door. “Look, it doesn’t have to be you.” Another run of his fingers through his hair, as if he were memorizing the texture and length of every strand, and then he offered, so dramatically, “Take what you will of mine.”
Fia lifted the scissors between them, and he didn’t even flinch as she spread the glinting blades. He really meant it. For Penbrook, it would be a true sacrifice, more painful than if she’d sliced the tip of his finger, though she didn’t think the grimoire would be picky about who the gift came from, and so when she made the decisive cut, it was her own dark coil of hair that fell to the ground.
Her own dark coil of hair that slithered across the floor toward The Book of Ribs.
She lifted her skirt, hopping out of the way—and resisting the impulse to stamp, stamp, stamp her foot until the mischievous curl of hair lay still beneath her heel.
“You sacrificed of yourself,” Penbrook said, gaze latched onto Fia even as she kept a distrustful eye on the grimoire.
