Page 78 of Spellwright

“It’s not here,” Fia moaned after they’d spent three-quarters of an hour upturning the entire shop. For a terrible moment she worried the grimoire had slunk outside behind her when the Lavenders had left in such a hurry. That it was long gone by now. But she would have seen it, wouldn’t she, inching horribly past her toes?

“It’s somewhere,” Penbrook said unhelpfully. “You finish looking around down here, and I’ll check upstairs.” He hesitated. “If I have permission to… look through your things.”

Asked as if he hadn’t already snooped through the shop’s ledger and who knew what else.

“Yes, yes.” She waved him through the door into the apartment, belatedly going pink cheeked at the thought of him unintentionally opening the drawer with her underthings. He was already taking the steps two at a time, though—too late to call him back now—and so Fia hurried into the parlor, shoving the thought from her head. There were much greater things to worry about than silly embarrassments. Such as the terribly cold and final grip of death that threatened Penbrook.

Thunder rumbled like sky-skipped stones, and a chill filled the air as the storm wormed its way down the chimney. With a quick gesture, Fia started a fire in the hearth, then placed her gold-dusted hands on her hips, surveying the sitting room as Penbrook’s footfalls thumped on the floor above.

There weren’t many spots for a book to hole up here. Hastily she checked the drawers of the side table and the mound of books piled atop it. She peeked behind the sofa and under both chairs and between all the cushions, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she rose, only for it to immediately fall back across her cheek.

Emitting the smallest of chirps, Rin settled on the edge of a frame on the wall, looking as if he’d just escaped the painting’s borders, where dappled sunlight fell on an autumn meadow. Gwendolyn must have been so worried about what had become of him, but Fia would reunite them soon enough. First things first.

She sniffed. The air had a strange sort of smell to it, of wood and smoke. Of books and ink. Of something quite unpleasant, oily and sinister and rotted. Everything mingled together in a way that suddenly set her heart pounding.

“Oh!” Fia cursed, stumbling forward as she mellowed the fire with a hasty gold-sparked hand swish.

Avoiding the tempered flames as best she could, she ducked her head into the mouth of the fireplace and reached her arm up into its sooty throat. Already the chimney stones held some warmth. She groped their surfaces, moving quickly to avoid a burn, finding nothing—and then her fingertips brushed against a barely there ledge and the object sitting upon it. She snatched it up.

Immediately, her stomach dropped, as if she’d grabbed hold of a very large spider.

Fia hopped away from the hearth, clutching the grimoire. Smoke plumed up from its fleshy cover, the seams red with irritation, the corners just a bit singed, but she’d saved it from a much worse fate. Because as dark as the book’s promised magic was, she didn’t want it to be destroyed. Not when its return to Thistledown would clear her name. And, more importantly, not when it might save Penbrook and Andromeda.

The grimoire let out a wheezy breath like an old man who would smoke his way into the grave. She dropped the book onto the low table before the sofa, watching it warily, daring it to move. Besides the uneven inhalations and the ragged exhalations, The Book of Ribs remained where she left it. Perhaps it was watching her too.

“Penbrook!” she called, not at all wanting to be alone with the tome.

Another scramble of footsteps sounded on the ceiling, then the stairs, and Penbrook slanted into the room. His gaze landed on the grimoire, taking in the sooty cover. “You burned it?”

“Not intentionally,” Fia huffed. “Just as you didn’t intentionally lose it.”

He hummed an acknowledgment.

Completely drained, Fia sank into the marigold chair, drawing up her knees as Penbrook took the emerald chair beside her, though he sat at its edge, hair still shockingly untamed and hanging in his downcast eyes. With a wary hand, he wiped spots of soot from the book, assessing the damage.

“It hasn’t taken too bad a beating,” he finally determined.

“And the interior?” Fia didn’t really want him to open the grimoire, but they’d already decided they had to take the chance if they wanted to break his curse.

Penbrook tapped the edge of the book where the jagged pages could be seen, held tight by a tarnished lock even Grace couldn’t have picked. “Have to find a way to open it first.”

Fia gripped her knees, knowing all too well what the book really longed for, and it wasn’t an ordinary key. “Maybe we should wait for Andromeda. She’d want to be here.”

Even with the curtains closed, they could hear the wind whipping against the windowpane, could feel it shaking the beams of the shop.

“Don’t think we’ll be seeing her any time soon. She knows better than to venture out in this weather.”

“All right, then.” Fia set her feet on the floor. “Just us.”

There was no good place to confront a grimoire, so Fia and Penbrook settled across from each other on the floor, Rin content on his frame, and no sign of Finnick since the storm hit its peak, which was likely for the best given his appetite for birds.

Penbrook set The Book of Ribs between them. It remained quiet as he did so.

Waiting.

“It’ll want a sacrifice.” Unable to get comfortable, Fia shifted her legs beneath her. “That’s what it’s made of, and that’s also the key.”

“Greedy thing, isn’t it?”