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Grace paused, though, tilting her head to inspect Fia more closely. “What’s that in your hair?”
“Um.” Fia reached up. Her fingers caught on the rook’s feather, which had somehow stuck in her strands all night, then yanked it out. Apparently, she should have taken the time to look in the mirror.
“Never mind. Have you seen this?” Grace waved a thin newssheet in the air. Her arm moved too quickly for Fia to see much. But she saw enough, and it had nothing to do with Montrose.
A single word flashed—Thistledown—all the rest a thick blur of ink. The feather fell from her hand, forgotten, as she snatched the paper from her friend and bowed her head to read.
TRIVORIS HERALD
THEFT AT THISTLEDOWN
BY DOMINIK HONESTLY
Long considered the greatest of the great libraries, with a voluminous collection of mysterious manuscripts, spellbinding spellbooks, and ill-intentioned grimoires, Thistledown Library glimmers like a dark jewel to the envy of all who reside beyond the borders of Trivoris (and perhaps to some within them). For countless years the legendary archives have locked their doors to all but elite scholars and esteemed librarians—but what curious magician among us hasn’t thought of the magnificent tomes behind those gargoyle-guarded doors?
Honestly, it is a wonder that greed or maleficence, curiosity or entitlement, hasn’t knocked on those doors all the sooner and thieved away a book of spells—but it is a horror now that the day has come.
Last midnight, The Book of Ribs, an ancient and unquestionably dangerous grimoire, went missing from the Thistledown archives. While recovery is “a certainty,” according to Cloak Rowen Fallow—even though finding spells were cast without success—other sources, who have asked to remain anonymous, expressed grave concerns over what curses might be unleashed in the interim. (Others have wondered whether the Masque of Parchment and Ink, only weeks away, might be compromised.)
Of note, a certain dust-fingered spellwright from the Wakesend District was questioned regarding the theft, and though the Cloak Fallow released her without charge, one might find it suspicious that she was discovered wandering the path outside the library the very night a spellbook went missing. Make of it what you will.
To all those here in Trivoris, and throughout Orium, please beware.
The newspaper crinkled in Fia’s tight grip. The article hadn’t named her, and yet she felt completely exposed. There were other spellwrights in Wakesend, of course, but none were known for being dust-fingered like Fia. She let out a remorseful groan.
Grace’s clear brown eyes narrowed. “Tell me you didn’t.”
Fia’s lips twisted with the want of a lie before the truth burst out. “I did.” She never could withhold anything from Grace for long—the two of them were too close to keep secrets. And anyway, Grace could always read Fia’s face even if she hadn’t said a word.
“What were you thinking?” Then Grace seemed to silently answer her own question. She was well aware of Fia’s unremitting quest for her mother’s spellbook. “Oh, Fia. Where’s the grimoire? If we return it now—”
“The grimoire? No!” Fia shook her head, realizing Grace thought she’d stolen from the archives. She’d skimmed that part of the article, so focused on the last bit that not-so-subtly condemned her that only now did it sink in. The Book of Ribs was missing, and everyone would think Fia had taken it—the Cloaks, the reporter Dominik Honestly, and all his readers across Trivoris. Even Grace, her closest friend, suspected her. “It wasn’t me,” Fia said helplessly.
“You’d better sit down.” Grace guided Fia to the small table in the center of the kitchen. “And you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Fia slumped into the nearest chair, Grace sitting across from her, and she confessed everything. “I got a letter from Thistledown, denying me access to the archives. So I made a plan—”
“A reckless plan,” Grace inserted, and Fia pointedly ignored her.
“—and I sneaked into Thistledown.”
“You should have told me,” Grace said in that matter-of-fact way she had, though the clipped edges of the words hinted at a small hurt too. That Fia hadn’t confided in her. “I wouldn’t have let you go, and then you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to be talked out of it.” Right or wrong, she’d wanted to make the decision on her own.
“Well, I doubt you want to waste away in the Azantian Hold, either.” Grace’s hand struck the table, emphasizing her point. “But that’s just what will happen if the Cloaks charge you.”
Chastened, Fia rubbed her wrists where the gargoyle had gripped her. They weren’t sore, but she could still feel the gritty clutch of those claws, holding her in place as the Cloaks arrived. Shivering in the cold, she’d answered their many questions, cooperating as best she could—while lying through her teeth and fearing they saw right through her.
“I wasn’t the only one there.” Fia whispered now—for some reason it felt dangerous to say aloud. “There were… three magicians, I think. Looking for something.”
“Inside the library at the same time? I don’t like the sound of that. Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so.” But Fia wasn’t sure. She’d felt her concealment spell slipping as she’d run from the archives. What if they’d caught sight of her?
What if they thought she’d caught sight of them?
“They must have stolen the grimoire,” Grace reasoned, as if that solved everything. But then she frowned, dragging the paper across the table toward her. “But why weren’t they mentioned in the article?”
