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Returning to the shop with the girls, Fia immediately scanned the room, sure she’d spot something amiss. Instead, a rush of relief swept through her at the sight of Penbrook near the window.
“Oh, he’s back,” Norie said, and after excusing herself, slipped off with Annalise to say hello.
Unsurprisingly, a crowd had gathered around him, but some—like Elena Reyes and Skye Blackwood—seemed less starry-eyed than they once might have been. Instead, they were talking to him as they might any other Wakesend neighbor who had helped out their own. Like they’d accepted him. Like they thought he belonged.
That slim thorny crown still sat crooked on his head, and it looked a little misshapen. Fia hadn’t noticed it in the dark parlor this morning—how imperfectly he had made it.
He glanced up at her then, only long enough to give her a side-heavy grin, before returning his attention to the customers before him and taking their requests one by one.
A bouquet of crimson balloons, none quite the same size, tied off with a curl of shiny black string.
A cape of the softest satin with an uneven silver trim.
A globe of light that flicker, flicker, flickered.
As with the crown he’d crafted that morning, each of the illusions were lovely yet somehow not quite right—and their creation seemed to cost him when before his displays had appeared completely effortless. Shadows prowled under his eyes as he bent his magic to his will.
No one else noticed the way his teeth clenched behind his lazy smile or how his hair flopped across his forehead. No one else noticed the frayed edges of the illusions that seemed sure to sputter out before five to seven days had passed. They weren’t looking as closely, not at the illusions and not at him.
And of course, they didn’t know about his twisted curse and the way it rushed him toward some dark, eternal sleep.
He might close his eyes tonight and never again open them.
The thought sent Fia flying across the room, her elbows gentle but firm as she worked her way through the gathering and to his side.
“Penbrook—”
“Are you trying to cut the line?” he inquired, aiming for a lightness his sleepy voice didn’t quite convey.
Fia couldn’t bring herself to tease back. “No, I just…” She glanced at the people around him—Skye, who sidestepped to give her space, Norie and Annalise, who sipped their tea and watched her over the rims of their cups, and all the rest, who arched curious eyebrows. Not wanting to voice her worries in front of them, Fia leaned close to Penbrook’s ear. “Your… crown is crooked.”
It wasn’t what she’d meant to say. She should have told him she feared the curse had advanced, making him burn through his magic, and he would wear himself out, but she remembered that day they’d gone to Fortune’s End and how sensitive he’d been at the thought of being unable to manage his illusions. He’d only pushed harder, stubbornly determined to prove himself—popping up that ridiculous polka-dot umbrella.
And now, even though she hadn’t spoken plainly, he seemed to guess at some of what she wanted to say. He frowned.
“Here,” she offered. “Let me straighten it.”
“Don’t fuss,” he said, but she’d already reached out. Touched the cold metal. The thorns were sharp under her fingertips. An illusion somehow solid enough to draw blood.
She sucked on the scratch, then tucked her hand behind her back so Penbrook wouldn’t see.
“Am I better presented now?” A smirk slid across his face, played for their audience.
“Yes,” she said, the cut on her finger a small pulse of pain that felt like a warning. “But maybe you’d like a break?”
“Oh, he’s just gotten here,” someone moaned.
“I have, and everything’s fine,” Penbrook said, unable to mask the guttering light in his eyes before he turned his attention to the girl who had spoken.
She held out her arm, the sleeve pushed back just a bit, an illusion half complete on her wrist. Fia backed away as Penbrook formed the rest—what appeared to be a line from a book, or maybe a song—the letters overly slanted. Even so, the girl seemed happy enough with the script’s placement.
But all Fia could think of was the marking she’d caught sight of on Sebastian Smith’s wrist the night of the ball. There, rippling on his skin, and then gone. Words she hadn’t been quick enough to read. The ache in her belly grew stronger.
Above the door, the bell rang, an ominous jangle that had her head whipping to the side, had her feet striding forward, an irresistible tug in her center. She tasted cinders on her tongue. Watched as black ash lifted up from her fingertips.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Sebastian Smith stood in the doorway.
CHAPTER 27
