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Fia drew the book closer, and she couldn’t help herself—she discreetly sniffed, catching the rainy-sky scent that was so purely Penbrook. Shivering at the feel of his magic bound within the pages, she gazed down. Candlelight wavered over the paper, revealing fine lines and pencil-made shadows, and it was disconcerting how long it took for her to understand. Like a wonder-filled child, she let out the smallest gasp.

There was no handwriting on the page to speak of, only an illustration of the dark sky and beneath it a field, the span of it covered entirely in finely etched clover, each of the tiny stems holding four leaves. She didn’t need Penbrook’s glasses to appreciate the detail or a hand to the page to absorb the hum of each leaf caught in an imagined breeze. She knew how it might feel to pull a single clover from the ground and press it between the pages of a book.

How it might feel to work this… luck spell.

She glanced up at him, her finger poised at the corner of the page like a question. In answer, Penbrook waved one hand, granting her permission to view the rest.

Slowly, Fia turned the pages of his book, her fingers stumbling over the small downy feather she’d sprouted from her hair, saved here like it was special. She said nothing, going back and back, over a drawing of peonies and a moonstone ring, a tarnished crown and a cloud of butterflies—so magical, and so realistic, she thought they might slip from the page and into the air, turning to gold like the ones he’d made before.

Fia knew he was an artist—had heard Andromeda’s story, had seen his illusions and his sketch of the Willows—but she hadn’t known this was how he did all his spellwork. Not with words, but with illustrations. It was so uniquely beautiful, this way of manifesting magic. How he might craft a spell to soften his coats, or design a beautiful gown, even to fly, by drawing what he wanted to be.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she said simply.

Penbrook sat back in his chair where the candlelight barely reached, so when he spoke, his voice came from the shadows. “Not up to your standards as a spellwright? No, well, not up to my father’s standards for a Madbury either, as you might have guessed.”

Even though she’d witnessed a hint of this vulnerability before, she hadn’t expected it from him now. It was like he’d shown her a wound, and it would have been so easy to poke at it, deepening the bruise, hurting him the way he’d hurt her. She closed the book, and pushed it back to him.

“I think you know that’s not what I meant. Quite the opposite,” she said, and it was the most she could give. She wouldn’t intentionally hurt him, but she couldn’t bring herself to marvel over Penbrook’s drawings aloud, regardless of the marveling in her head.

Either way, it seemed to be enough for him. When he tipped forward, back into the candlelight, he wore that slanted smile. Really, he shouldn’t be allowed to look at her like that.

“Fia—”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said, sharpening the parts of herself that threatened to soften. “I’ve got a spell to write.”

With her fingertips tingling, she swapped the ink-splattered page for a fresh sheet, her mind spinning with the whims she’d had earlier about clocks and breaths and heartbeats. She could almost hear the clock ticking, feel the breath exhaling, see a heart beating, drawn to life by Penbrook.

Fia thought of The Book of Ribs too, of what she was asking of the magic and what she would sacrifice for this impossible demand against a curse that refused to break.

As she wrote, the magic swelled inside her, and golden dust trailed her pen across the paper. Head to heart to hand, the words unraveled, deceptively simple in their composition once she sorted them.

When Fia was through, she felt the giddiness of a spell done right, which must have shown on her face, as Penbrook’s pencil quieted, and he looked up at her questioningly.

“I think I can give you tomorrow,” she said, and it was such a small promise—one single day when he and Andromeda should have so many more—that she deflated a little.

“That’s something.” And, well, now Penbrook was gazing at her like she’d marveled him.

“I did it for Dromeda,” Fia felt the need to say.

“Of course.” Penbrook smiled bleakly, unable to see past her lie.

Fia tore her eyes away from his, felt his gaze lingering as she looked down, not seeing her spellwork at first, only feeling Penbrook’s uncertainty. So she had hurt him after all, and there was nothing to be done about it now.

She took up the paper and read through the spell again. Only this time did she recognize the darkness she’d woven into it. There was a small echo of Arturo Lyons here—as if he’d sat at her elbow, whispering about wants and needs—an intention that gouged deeper, a desperation that had never touched her other charms, not even the ones meant to find her mother’s spellbook.

Reaching out, she touched the edge of the paper to the candle flame and let it burn. She didn’t want to read it again, and besides, she’d already memorized it. Her fingertips went hot as the last corner fell to ash.

“I didn’t think you meant it that day,” Penbrook said. “That you really burn your spells.”

“They’re not gone. They’re still here.” Her hand fluttered over her chest. She didn’t know if he’d understand. How they were closer to her this way, locked inside her instead of preserved in a spellbook that might, like her mother’s had, disappear. “And this one, I’m going to cast it.”

So saying, Fia stood and let the spell go.

There is a clock ticking our demise,

so let it slip, and let it slide counterwise.

Afford a breath twice its air,