Page 66 of Spellwright

“I think so,” she said, wanting to trust her magic, even if she’d never cast a spell that felt so wrong.

Together, they ventured into the room.

Unlike the others they’d searched, the small library felt lived in, the scent of candlewick and smoke wafting in the air, warm as if someone had only just extinguished a fire. A single lamp still burned.

Against the far wall, interspersed with tall windows, bookshelves soared to the ceiling, most of the volumes faded and tattered with age. In front of them, a worn chaise sat upon a rug woven with a scene of a princess and a bear half shed from his skin, a prince emerging.

A pillow and a carelessly tossed blanket lay across the chaise, hinting that Sebastian might have slept here, surrounded by the stacks of books. It seemed like something Fia would have done when she was small—impossibly promising herself she’d stay awake the whole night through and finish every volume. But now, the idea of Sebastian by himself in the quiet—when he had his choice of bedrooms—felt strange and lonesome.

On a circular side table he’d left a tray with a pitcher of water, a single glass that felt somehow lonesome too, and a few apples. Beside those items sat a book. Fia traced the title with her finger—not the grimoire, but a volume of fairy tales—then peeked inside, finding his name inscribed on the inside cover. It wasn’t what she’d expected him to be reading, but then, would he really leave The Book of Ribs out in plain sight?

Will you let me find you? Fia thought again.

Another vicious tug came from that unseen braid of hair and skin, clawing at her center, and she tripped, going down on her knees, her gown spilling around her.

“Careful!” Penbrook rushed forward, a hand out to help.

“I’m fine,” she panted, and even as her heart hammered, she waved him off. Tipped her head to better inspect the floor. Felt the butterflies in her hair fluttering their wings in agitation. “There’s… something here.”

She could feel it. A prickling in the air.

And yet, she bent lower, crept closer to what she could sense but not yet see. Shadows fumed beneath the chaise, roiling over and around one another, as if they’d rather join the light than hold the object at their center.

With a shaky hand, Fia reached into the darkness. Curled her fingers around the edge of something she absolutely didn’t want to touch, and slid it out.

Queasily, Fia stared down at The Book of Ribs.

CHAPTER 20

That night at Thistledown, in the frail moonlight, Fia had only glimpsed the spine of The Book of Ribs, brushing the raised letters marking its name before the thieves startled her away. She hadn’t seen it whole and horrible as she did now.

“Oh.” A slip of a word that hardly captured her cinching dread.

Because, so awfully, the grimoire breathed.

She could think of no other way to describe the seething rise and fall of the book’s fleshy cover. Each time it expanded, dark stitches that looked more like hair than thread grew taut, and the pale skin stretched and stretched against jagged seams. It smelled decidedly unbooklike—none of that old papery scent she so loved—the skin reeking of something half dead.

“I’m going to be sick,” Fia rasped into her hand.

Penbrook looked a little green as he squatted beside her. “Perhaps it’s time to rethink that habit of book sniffing.”

“Never,” she said stubbornly.

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Fia reached again for the book—but she couldn’t bring herself to touch the beastly thing.

Penbrook prodded it with one finger. “It’s not going to bite.”

“It might.” Fia hadn’t forgotten the skin and bone and hair Arturo Lyons had sacrificed in the creation of the grimoire. He’d probably surrendered some of his teeth too, wrenching them out of his mouth one by one before feeding them to the book in payment for its powerful magic.

“Let’s not take any chances.” Penbrook fumbled in his pocket, then withdrew a black pouch, just the size of the book. “It’s warded.”

So that Cloak Rowen Fallow—or anyone else—couldn’t find the book once it was in their possession. Well, at least one of them had planned ahead.

“Good thinking.” But Fia wondered what Sebastian was thinking, leaving the book here so casually, seemingly without a ward, after he’d managed to mask its location all this time. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Penbrook frowned, then decided. “I don’t think so—but even if it were, would that stop you from taking the grimoire?”

From its place on the floor, the book’s breaths came faster—Fia could hear them, pages dryly rustling, those threads of hair bristling—anticipating her reply.