Page 42 of The Lies We Conjure
“I do, actually.”
When the scent of lilacs and Shadrack’s unsmiling face greets us a second time, Wren points triumphantly at an alcove beside the grand staircase landing. But from this vantage, with the nearest gas lamp flickering over my shoulder, I see it for what it really is—another set of stairs, narrow and short.
They dump us out into the open entry of a little jewelry box of a room with a single window on each of the four sides, the telltale scent of books punching us square in the face as our eyes adjust to the weak sconce light.
Window seats are tucked under each sash, a foursome of antique chairs in the same bright green of Winter’s dress are spun around a small table in the middle, and every other nook and cranny is set with books. Built-in shelves line every bit of wall space, and more ring the chairs in the middle, low and perfectly aligned with the chairbacks as not to make everything claustrophobic or lose what’s likely a very lovely view of both the mountains and Wood Rose in the day.
“Dear God,” Wren stage-whispers into my ear, “are you sure you’re not a witch? Because you might have conjured this from one of your book-nerd daydreams.”
Thisiswhat I dream of when Agatha’s is empty and I’m shelving carts of vintage paperbacks, though truth be told I’ve never seen a collection like this before in person. There must be at least a thousand very old, very loved tomes living on these shelves, holding new worlds between worn leather spines.
I swallow, heavily. “First objective, Death magic. Second objective, Four Lines information, like the Wikipedia overview of how it works, and—”
Wren cuts me off with a raised hand.
“Drill sergeant, a question.” I roll my eyes as she lowers her arm. “This must have happened before, right? Ursula probably didn’tjust pull this out of her figurative magical witch hat, did she? Wait. Possibly not figurative. She probably really could rock a hat.”
I don’t doubt that.
“Okay, three objectives. Death magic, Four Lines information, hunt for the relics.” I hold up my phone. “Take pictures of anything that might be relevant, and we’ll review in our suite.”
Wren does her best impression of a military salute, and, after doffing our ridiculous heels, we fan out. I claim the far wall overlooking the courtyard, while my sister opts for the shelves overlooking the front lawn.
The books are as delicate and aged as I’d inferred, with translucent pages in some parts, the covers leather-bound or moldering cloth. Most of the books are typeset but some are literally hand-written in the same strangely shiny ink of Ursula’s last will and testament. And next to none have any sort of index.
I realize that perhaps I need tothinklike an ancient witch who already knows everything there is to know about witch culture and the Four Lines. If I wanted to find basic information about the Blackgate witches or the general distinctions between the Four Lines, it wouldn’t be in a book any Hegemony used often. Therefore, the type of book I want wouldn’t be close at hand or at eye level—in this room, Ursula’s office, or any other literary repository hiding in this house.
I start hunting for big, obvious titles on the top shelves. I’ve loaded my arms up with five huge reference-style resources and turned toward the reading table when Wren punches out a frustrated sigh—the kind that blows her bangs up and away. “I literally just found a book of recipes. Witchy cooking stuff with cauldrons. There were unidentifiable splotches in the margins. I mean, it’s cool to know that spells and cauldrons are actually a thing, but I really couldn’t tell if that was blood or wine or you know,witch juice,on the page.”
“That’s quite judgmental coming from someone who vomited watermelon gazpacho with a champagne chaser an hour ago.”
Wren’s book slams shut. “Very funny. Now I’m both repulsed and reminded I’m doing research on an empty stomach.”
“Stop complaining and help me with these thick ones. They look promising.”
Wren yanks a massive one off the top. It’s nearly square, as wide as it is long, and probably four inches thick.“Ley Lines and Their Faults: A Modern Guide to Energy and the Four Lines,”Wren recites from the cover, pulling a face. Then, she flips inside. “First printing, 1902.Supermodern.”
“Don’t knock it until you read it.”
Wren blows out enough air to fill a large balloon with her annoyance. Focused tasks are not exactly her jam. Which is reinforced by yet another lobbed complaint five minutes later.
“Every mention of the names we know are almost like an afterthought—like everything is already understood.” Wren slumps back in her chair. “They mention the Cerises and the Hegemonys and whatever almost as a substitute for their line.”
That I’d noticed too. Everything I’d come across so far seemed to have used each family name interchangeably with the type of magic. Which wasn’t helpful when you were trying to figure what those were exactly and where they came from and whatever the hell else we had going on here.
“But the four families can’t be the only ones with these powers,” I answer, gesturing toward the books, with all their various authors. “There have to be more witches than just the ones in this building. I mean, we know their parents died, but three Hegemonys and three other people made this generation of cousins.”
“You make it sound like they were grown in a lab.” Wren’s head snaps up from her current book, mischief gathering at the corners of her quirked mouth. “Maybe theyweregrown in a lab. I mean, did you see Winter’s pores? No, you didn’t, because they don’t exist.”
I pointedly roll my eyes in an impression of her. Wren laughs, and I expect her to just tuck back into her book, but then she pings stick straight in her chair, an idea nearly bursting out of her eye sockets as her lips drop open.
“Wait.”She clambers for my wrist. “What ifweare witches? Imean, Marsyas picked us for a reason. What if our branch of the Four Lines got lost somehow?”
I’m about to dismiss her starry-eyed suggestion with a quip about her seeing too many movies, because Marsyas’s targeting us had everything to do with our likeness to her granddaughters and our collectively gullibility, but then Wren adds, “Mom did love this place. Maybe she had latent magic and was, like, drawn to it? Like Marsyas was drawn to us?”
I don’t think that’s the case, but something like regret lances through me, collecting in my windpipe and weighing down my gut. I swallow and blink, doing absolutely nothing to mute the emotion.
After too long a beat, “Maybe” is all I can manage to say.
