Page 9

“I guess they weren’t caught”—which seemed entirely unfair to Fia—“and I didn’t tell the Cloaks I saw them.” Grace’s mouth opened in what was sure to be a protest, but before she could say anything else, Fia continued, “I couldn’t! If I had, I would have given myself away. I didn’t exactly tell the Cloaks I was sneaking around the library. I said I left after returning my books. That I was out walking the gardens across from Thistledown while waiting for a coach. I didn’t know anything was stolen.”

“The Book of Ribs,” Grace said, tapping the paper.

“Yes.”

“ ‘An ancient and unquestionably dangerous grimoire.’ ”

Nervously, Fia bit her thumb. “Apparently.”

“Well, it’s got nothing to do with you.” Spoken as if Grace’s opinion alone could absolve Fia of everything.

But didn’t this mess have something to do with her? The Book of Ribs, which had given her such a creepy feeling—and even now, nowhere near it, sent shivers over her skin just at the thought—was the only book she’d touched while in the archives. How could it be that this was the one to go missing?

“What’s that look on your face?” And there Grace went, reading her so easily.

Fia sighed. “The Book of Ribs. While I was in the archives, I saw it.”

This admission left Grace momentarily speechless, and then she pushed to her feet. “It’s only a coincidence. Now come on.”

“What—”

“I’m meeting Montrose at Poet’s Theory.” Grace glanced at her silver wristwatch, a beautiful timepiece she’d found at an estate sale in the Glory District. The very place she’d met Montrose Shen, her beau and fellow antiquarian, who’d won her over, not with his charming smile, but rather his keen eye for decades-old treasure. “He’s probably there already, saving us a table. You know how crowded it gets on the nights there’s live music.”

Fia hadn’t been to the little pub in months—not since she’d lost her mother—but she nodded, feeling out of sorts. The conversation had turned so quickly. “Um, tell him hello for me.”

“Say hello to him yourself.” Grace held out her hand. “You’re coming with me.”

Fia looked at her friend incredulously. “I can’t! That article—”

“That article is the reason you have to come.” Somehow both gently and insistently, Grace pulled Fia to her feet. “You can’t hide away here, doors locked, Sable Spells closed. You’ll only make everyone think you’re guilty.”

“But I’m not!”

Grace raised her eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

“Not of theft!” Just of trespass. And foolishness.

Craftily, Grace leveled her gaze at Fia. “Come for one song.” Which was her way of saying, Don’t make me drag you.

And if Fia was honest, she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. “One song.”

Having gotten her way, Grace smiled and teasingly said, “You might want to comb your hair first.”

Only three blocks from the spellshop, Poet’s Theory awaited them. It looked like a cottage, squat and cozy, shutter-framed windows aglow, chimney piping smoke into the early autumn night. As Fia followed Grace through the door, the warm and rambling notes of a fiddle rushed to greet them, joined by a sweet voice singing about a secret love. The musicians sat on stools at the back of the pub under a hazy light, the fiddler watching the young woman as she sang, her eyes closed, her foot tapping in rhythm to the music.

The pub was crowded, and maybe that was better, easier for Fia to get lost among all the other patrons. Still, as Grace tugged her along, it felt like everyone was watching her, whispering about the article in the Trivoris Herald. Making judgments about her involvement in the theft.

Stop imagining things, Fia told herself, already regretting that she’d come. Especially when she glimpsed Skye Blackwood, who stood behind the bar shelving mugs. Abruptly (and with a pinch of guilt), Fia turned away, not wanting to see anyone who knew her, even someone who had only ever been distantly friendly to her. She let her hair fall across her face, and still she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes trailing her through the room.

Grace, noticing Fia’s discomfort, squeezed her hand. “You’re all right. Promise.”

And then, perfectly timed, they spotted Montrose at a table tucked into the far corner, one hand raised to draw their attention. His whole face lit up when Grace waved back.

Fia had never had anyone look at her like that—all… glowy faced—and she felt a little pang. What would it feel like to find someone to lose her head over? To find someone to lose her heart over?

“You’re late, love,” he said as they dropped into their seats, but he was grinning and untroubled, his blue-black hair rakishly dusting his shoulders. He said nothing of the article from the Herald, even though Grace must have pushed it in his face before she’d gone off to see Fia. Montrose minded his business, respectful of your own unless you pulled him into it—and she wasn’t going to be bringing her mess up again tonight.

“You’re just early,” Grace said playfully, reaching for the mug of cider already placed before her.