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“Well.” She forced levity into her voice that she didn’t in any way feel. “Pinching didn’t work to wake you this time.”
He pushed himself to sitting, all the while looking like he was about to tumble back to the cushions—and take her down with him. “So you felt obligated to try waking me with a kiss? I’ll admit, it was more to my liking.”
She stood up, toeing the floor with one anxious foot. Nothing about it had felt like obligation, but she only said, “It works in fairy tales.”
“Is this a fairy tale, then?” His mouth found the edges of a princely grin, though he was no prince.
“Only if you had a crown,” she said, hiding all the feelings she shouldn’t be having behind her teasing.
Penbrook lifted his hand, and in it he spun a golden light that underscored the dark rings beneath his eyes and the downturn of his mouth. Without his usual flair, he sculpted the light like it was as hard as stone, his magic slow to listen to his commands, the strain of weaving his illusion plain in the rigid lines of his body.
Fia stepped back as the light expanded and, under Penbrook’s direction, formed a thin, tarnished crown with curved spikes like thorns. He bowed his head, placing the circlet on his hair. Without lifting his chin, he glanced up at her.
“And now?” he asked, and he looked so achingly hopeful, wishing for a happy ending that would never be written.
“I… I couldn’t find a spell to break the curse,” she blurted out. Although Fia’s voice was full of apology, the words landed harshly, not at all how she’d wanted to share the news. “I thought… I was sure there’d be something we could use from the book, and there wasn’t. And now…” She whispered the rest. “I don’t know what to do…”
To save you. To keep you.
Penbrook stood, a slow unfolding of his tired limbs, and she thought about going to him, but she’d already pulled away from him once, and now her feet stubbornly refused to move forward. He walked toward her, then past her—and she felt a small hurt even if it wasn’t fair—retrieving The Book of Ribs from where she’d thoughtlessly dropped it.
“It was never going to work,” he said, his back to her like a wall she couldn’t climb. “So what we’ll do now is return the grimoire to Thistledown, where it’s always belonged. This never should have become your trouble.”
“But—”
“But first…” Penbrook turned, whistling merrily—despite everything—and holding his finger out for Rin. The bird swooped down to him with a melodious chirp. “You should see if Finnick will forgive you for shutting him in the kitchen all night, and I’ll take Rin home to Gwendolyn. Perhaps her jellied gingersnaps will be my last meal.”
“Penbrook!”
The corner of his mouth curled, and he left Fia there with the tragic and altogether unwanted thought of last meals.
And first and last kisses.
CHAPTER 26
“I’m sorry, Finnick,” Fia said again, trying to coax the marmalade cat into Sable Spells with an outstretched hand. He accepted the offered treats, but other than that, he wanted nothing to do with her after what he must have thought a terrible mistreatment. With a swish of his fluffy tail, he trotted up the stairs, where he would likely sulk from the throne of her pillow, and so she entered the shop alone.
Through the windows, she could see the weather had cleared overnight—a crisp blue reigned in the autumn sky—but there was evidence of the windstorm everywhere, leaves rushed up against the shopfront, broken branches strewn in the street, and a jagged tear in the awning above the door that had her shuddering. The split fabric looked much like the separated skin on the cover of The Book of Ribs before it had sewn itself back up with that silky strand of her hair.
Fia swallowed, touching the place where she’d snipped the small lock, the only evidence of what she’d done. Wanting to hide it like a terrible secret, she drew her longer tresses over her shoulder, waiting for some sign the finding spell she’d cast the night before had worked. Now that it was tomorrow.
Her stomach cinched uneasily, as if a sharp hook had anchored there and might suddenly tug her forward. Or reel something in.
But a quick look around the shop confirmed there hadn’t been a magical overnight delivery, and her mother’s spellbook wasn’t resting on the stoop when she poked her nose out the door. A torn newssheet, however, rustled against her ankle.
“What have you got to say today, Mr. Honestly?” she grumbled, opening the paper even though it made her already uneasy stomach twist a little more.
TRIVORIS HERALD
THE MASQUE WILL GO ON
BY DOMINIK HONESTLY
Although a devious thief breached the archives of Thistledown, posing a threat to all of Trivoris and raising concerns about the safety of guests and grimoires at the upcoming Masque of Parchment and Ink, and although last night’s most frightening and cursed windstorm shook Wakesend residents to their very cores, the time-honored gala will proceed in all its planned glory. (And not just because it’s taking place in the Glory District. Wink, wink.)
With his trusty rook on his shoulder, Assistant Archival Librarian Jasper Tremaine declared, “Librarians do not cower.” And certainly not with the loyal gargoyles keeping guard.
Honestly, the spirit and bravery of this librarian—of all librarians—cannot be overstated, and it gives one hope, even in these dark times, that the ruin of curses may yet be conquered. And in the meantime, for those of us fortunate enough to have received an exclusive invitation to the Masque of Parchment and Ink (or otherwise cleverly procured one), let us thoroughly and indulgently enjoy ourselves this All Hallows’ Eve.
