Page 92

“We can’t ask Grace for her invitations. They’re a gift for Montrose.” Yet even as Fia protested, she realized it might be the only thing they could do. Because even with the great risk of returning to Thistledown, where one slip of her mask could reveal her and they’d find The Book of Ribs in her possession, this plan of Penbrook’s was actually a good one.

“I just need to see an invitation,” he assured her, “and I’ll mirror it.”

“Can you?” Fia asked, worried about him expending magic he didn’t have the energy for.

“Yes,” he said firmly, though he hardly looked convincing, sagged in the chair as he was.

“When’s the masque again?” Andromeda asked.

“Two nights from now.” Two nights where Penbrook and Andromeda might go to sleep—and never wake. Fia clasped Andromeda’s ankle, still on her lap, and met Penbrook’s eyes. “So I have tonight and tomorrow night to work on that spell and find you more time.”

“Many cheers to that.” Andromeda waved for the bottle again without her arm coming any closer to grasping it.

“I’ll get it,” Penbrook said, reinvigorated, or so it seemed at first. Slowly, he pushed himself up from the chair—but somehow, he was still sitting in the chair too.

Fia blinked.

There were two Penbrooks—the first sat wilted in his seat, wearing a look of exhausted concentration, while the second stood without trouble, and captured the bottle. Showing off the mirroring spell he’d just spoken of like he had a point to prove.

“One of you is quite enough,” Fia muttered.

Then a third Penbrook split away from the first, walking toward the door as he said, “Speaking of spells, I have something I’ve been wanting to give you, Fia.”

“Nothing for me?” Andromeda playfully pouted.

Goose bumps rose on Fia’s skin as she watched this third figure go. Watched the second one generously pass the bottle to Andromeda, then return to the chair when she was done sipping, drink in hand once again, and meld back into the first. Penbrook drank, and Fia listened as footsteps padded up the stairs and into his room.

“A mirroring spell,” she said, her voice strangely calm even as her heart leapt in her chest, and her thoughts swarmed as darkly as the cursed ash that had consumed the shop. It was an intricate spell, one more often used on inanimate objects—like an invitation—due to the complexities of living, breathing creatures, but of course the Madbury could cast it perfectly.

Or he could have, if he weren’t so close to his sleepy death.

The third Penbrook returned to the parlor, a tissue-wrapped parcel in hand—a hand with a blur of too many fingers. And now that she looked more closely, she saw the mouth ran a little wide too, giving him a wicked look as he smiled. “For you.”

Fia took the package, only to immediately set it aside. She did not say thank you. She did not open it. She glared at the true Penbrook through the flicker of his mirrored self, and once the illusion smoked away, she miserably said, “It was you.”

“What did he do this time?” Andromeda asked, tucking her legs to the side as Fia abruptly stood.

“You were at Thistledown that night, weren’t you?” she asked him, voice trembling. Finnick lifted his head, alert to her wobbly tone. “You were there”—and it was no longer a question—“wearing a cloak of black, walking the aisles of the archives—mirrored twice over as you were tonight.”

With considerable effort, Penbrook dragged himself to his feet, catching himself against the mantel as if the room spun around him. “I—”

“You’re the thief.” She trampled over his reply, not wanting to hear any lies or excuses, because that was all he could offer. And his words would only grate against all the parts of her that were already raw. “You’re the one who stole The Book of Ribs.”

He’d fooled her so completely, she’d never suspected him, and he must have thought himself so clever, casting the mirroring spell so any potential witnesses would believe three thieves were involved, not one. But he’d lucked out more than that, because all suspicion had fallen to Fia—and he’d said nothing, done nothing, to keep her name from being tarnished.

“Yes,” he admitted, jaw tight, like he didn’t want the word dragged out of him.

Fia had already known the truth in her bones, so his quiet admission shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. So much.

You’re good-hearted, she’d told him on the night of the Bramble Ball, and in reply he’d said, I don’t know about that.

She should have listened to him.

Fia folded her arms like a shield. Or maybe like wings—ones made of stone. Was this how a gargoyle took shape? Because she ached to transform. To harden her heart against Penbrook’s betrayal. She’d been so careless, cracking herself open.

To a liar.

“You came to my spellshop…” And she could think of only one reason he might have done that. He must have seen that first article about her in the Herald and then come sniffing around. Fia closed her eyes for a moment, gathering herself, then pushed on. “You weren’t looking for a job at all. You wanted to see if I recognized you!”