Page 102

His heart beat against her cheek, and she decided it was her favorite sound. Or maybe it was his voice, which came low and hoarse at her ear. “Fia.”

She let her eyes fall shut; she might have let the rest of herself fall recklessly too. For him. Even if it would hurt terribly in the end.

Don’t let go, she thought.

“I… won’t,” Penbrook whispered.

Oh, oh no, she’d spoken those words aloud. And now, how could she know if he held her because he wanted to or because she’d asked him? Thoroughly embarrassed, she slipped out of his arms, swiping at her eyes, looking anywhere but at him.

They stood there uncertainly, and then Penbrook cleared his throat. “There’s a pocket in that dress. For the book.”

“The Book of Ribs?” she asked, grateful for the little horror of a book to so completely change the subject—and remembering how she’d declined carrying it the night of the Bramble Ball in part due to her gown’s lack of pockets.

“Absolutely not. I’ll carry it. You can’t risk being caught with the grimoire. If someone is to take the fall, it will be me.” Penbrook nodded at the little blue volume. “Slip that one into your pocket.”

So she could keep it close to her. That was what Fia thought he meant, at first.

But it was more than that—much more.

As soon as Fia located the well-hidden pocket and tucked the spellbook inside, the whole gown flounced around her, the bodice hugging her curves, every fold unfurling, and she looked down as the dress all but breathed around her. The fabric had felt so strange, neither silk nor satin, organza or lace, and smelled like the soft pages of an old book—because that was exactly what it was made of. Words suddenly curled across the ivory paper and danced along the firm vertical spines cinching her ribs, each line lifted from the book nestled in her pocket.

Fia could hardly believe that she was wearing this parchment-made gown, more splendid than the one she’d once imagined, inked with her mother’s recovered spells. Some she recognized, others she didn’t, but all of them were spectacular despite how ordinary their intent, simply because they existed at all.

A spell to free clothes of their wrinkles

A spell to make a garden grow

A spell to curl stick-straight hair

A spell to clear the clouds from a starry sky

She wanted to cast them all. To feel her mother’s magic thrumming through her. For now, Fia turned a circle and the skirt spun with her, rustling and crinkling like paper-made bells.

“You look… very nice,” Penbrook said softly.

She slowed her twirl, not knowing what to do with even this smallest of compliments. What to do with him. So she brushed his words away. “My hair’s still a mess.”

“I think—”

“Dromeda’s waiting,” Fia said desperately, avoiding all the emotions brimming inside her, and turned for the door.

Her dark hair swung over her shoulders, and she caught the scent of rain, as if Penbrook drew near. But it was his magic that reached for her. The loose curls that usually framed her face swept suddenly upward on each side, pinned into place with the lightest tickle against her scalp, and the quiet humming of wings.

Lazy and soft, an illusioned butterfly fluttered past her cheek. Like her dress, the insect was made of paper, and its flimsy wings—not just two, but seemingly hundreds—beat like so many pages fanning, the tiniest of words inked on each tissue-thin layer.

Fia’s laughter bubbled as she chased the butterfly down the hushed hallway—and Penbrook trailed unsteadily after.

CHAPTER 32

From the darkness of the carriage, Fia watched the streets of Glory pass by, nervous for more reasons than she could count. She tried to ignore the fact that the window didn’t reflect her image, focusing instead on the view beyond the glass—the candlelight flickering behind the curtains of the shop fronts and apartments, the dried hyssop hanging from lintels, soft charms against whatever spirits might brush against the veil on All Hallows’ Eve.

Already she felt haunted.

Fia stole a look at Andromeda beside her, angled toward the window and quiet as she’d ever been. With her eyes obscured by a gauzy black ribbon of fabric, Andromeda had never seemed more mysterious. Slightly turning, Fia glanced at Penbrook. He lazed against the seat across from her, drowsiness like poison in his veins, his mask a slash of shadow over his eyes. She wished she could better see his face.

More, she wished time were not slipping along so quickly. But they were as ready as they’d ever be. Penbrook had enough coin in his pocket to bribe his way into the archives (or so he said), and he’d already mirrored the invitation three times over, the illusioned ink iridescent.

MASQUE