Without resorting to a letter opener, I wasn’t sure how to get him talking again.
“How does this work?” I stuck my nose in the topmost box, expecting to find silvery chisels or hammers. But the contents all sloshed and glistened in the moonlight. Jars upon jars filled with Maud’s signature ink waited for us to crack their wax seals. “The old wards were etched into the foundation. Is that what we’re doing?” I found a pen and three brushes of varying sizes loose in the bottom. “I’m not sure how steady my hand will be.”
“This etching is done with a sigil, not by hand,” he explained, not buying my act for a minute. “All you have to do is paint on your design, let it dry, and then I’ll walk you through the rest. That’s where things get interesting.”
Things had already gotten plenty interesting, if you asked me. “Are you going to help?”
“No.” He located a sketch pad and pencil in the second box. “This way the wards will be answerable only to you.”
“I like the sound of that.”
A hint of smile threatened to peek through. “I thought you might.”
A dip in temperature announced Cletus’s arrival, and it got me thinking. “Last night—”
Linus was already shaking his head. “I told you I’ll handle Ambrose.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him what I thought about that.
“No, it’s not that.” I sat and crossed my legs. “Boaz and I were walking after dinner. We passed the Cora Ann, and Cletus started acting peculiar. He kept pointing toward the second deck.”
“I see.” He settled on the grass near my elbow. “Was that the extent of it?”
“He didn’t seem to want to leave the boat, but it was late, and we wanted to get home.”
Linus rubbed his jaw. “He wasn’t aggressive or agitated?”
“No.” I smoothed out my design in front of me. “He was protective of me, but he didn’t harm or threaten me. He didn’t bother Boaz either.”
I shook the small vial of ink Linus selected for me, broke its seal, then breathed in the familiar tang of Maud’s unique blend. There was no mistaking a necromancer’s signature once you learned its scent. Inks were as individual as the necromancers who mixed them.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He tapped his pencil against the pad in his lap. “Cletus has been with me for a long time. I trust him as far as you can trust a wraith.”
“I thought you said they weren’t autonomous.” I kept working, kept moving, not giving the words any particular weight. I think that offhandedness was the only reason he answered.
“You can teach a wraith a series of commands, and the creatures abide by them as law. You can give them short-term goals, such as protect Grier. Or long-term goals such as do no harm unto others.” He scrunched up his face. “They operate within those parameters, even if you’re not actively controlling them. Or they should. Accidents do happen, but usually weak summoners are to blame, not the wraiths themselves.”
This was different than what he’d told me the last time we’d spoken about wraiths. Then I had imagined Cletus parked in the living room at the carriage house, staring off into space, waiting for his master’s command. But Linus was admitting he had given Cletus blanket instructions to protect me as he saw fit.
While he lectured me on wraith theory, relaxing into the safer topic, I worked on laying down my design in neat rows. I had a cramp in my hand when I finished the space within easy reach, but I was pleased with the work I had done. Flexing my hand to ease the pangs, I leaned back so Linus could get a better look.
“You must have worked all day to finish this.” His gaze cut to me, a question in his darkening eyes. “I only recognize every fourth sigil or so from your initial design.”
Ambrose had robbed me of sleep, but I kept that to myself. I seemed to be bottling up more and more lately. Woolly would not be pleased about that. She would demand I uncork as soon as possible. That meant reaching out to one of my three lifelines.
I had burdened Odette the last time, and Boaz was MIA for the next couple of days. That left Amelie.
I hoped day-old churro still worked as an incentive.
“Yeah, well, I told you I got carried away with my homework.” I resisted the urge to test it with my finger. The good thing about ink was it dried almost on contact. It had to bond fast. Skin was a slippery canvas, and that was our most common medium. “What comes next?”
“Choose a dry brush.” He passed me a clear bottle sloshing with liquid. “Paint the sigil for grounding.”
“What is this?” I sniffed the contents for hints of its composition. “I haven’t seen anything like it.”
“It’s mélange, a mixture of thrice-blessed birch water and horned owl tears.”
A sniff test proved there were no binding elements, no blood, so I deemed it safe enough. I swirled on the grounding sigil with a swoop of my wrist, and the effect was instantaneous. A rumble shook the foundation as bits of concrete chipped and flew, pelting my forearms, my cheeks.
“Hey,” I yelled. “Give a girl some warning next time.”
The window over my head swung open, and the curtains fluttered out into the yard.
“Not you, girl.” I patted the siding. “I meant Linus.” I touched my cheek where it stung, and drew away bloody fingers. “I could have lost an eye.”
“The sigil shouldn’t have reacted that way.” He wiped bits of dust and concrete off his face. “It was meant to sink the design into the foundation, like pressing a stamp into hot wax, not explode.” He removed his glasses and wiped them clean using his shirt. “Your magic must be reacting to the mélange.”
Thrice-blessed birch water and horned owl tears. Neither ought to be giving me fits, but owls were familiars of Hecate, and I was goddess-touched. Maybe there was a connection, and my magic reacted more strongly to her symbols. I wondered if we would ever know for sure.
Reaching up, I let Woolly’s curtains tease my fingertips. “It’s not hurting her, is it?”
He didn’t answer straightaway. “Woolly?”
The old house groaned, settling on her foundation, testing its fit, deciding how she felt about what I had done, and then she blasted the curtain overhead like a party horn blown.
“I’m guessing that’s approval.” I sank down as relief melted me. “We still need protection before we…”
“Hold still.” Linus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, white linen embroidered with his initials, and pressed it to my cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
Cold seeped through him into me, and the sting lessened the same as if I had cradled a bag of frozen peas against my face. “Thanks.”
“Let me fix this,” he murmured, assessing me, “and then we’ll find protective gear.”
The pen he removed from his pocket was familiar by now, and so was the weight of it when he pressed it against my cheek and began to draw healing sigils that made my skin itch and tingle. The pain ebbed as he worked, and when he finished, I lowered the handkerchief to let him inspect his work.
“The wounds have closed.” His fingertips trailed beneath my eye, an ice cube skating over skin. “They’re shallow. They won’t scar.”
“What about you?” I passed him the bloodied fabric. “You’ve got a cut at your temple.”
“Do I?” He reached up, smearing crimson, and frowned. “I didn’t even feel it. Is that all?”
“I think so.” I held out my hand for the pen. “Want me to patch you up?”
There was no hesitation on his part. He seemed to be saying, I trust you even if you don’t trust me. Though anyone who experimented on themselves had to have at least a teeny, tiny death wish, so I didn’t let it flatter me too much. “You remember the sigils?”
“I think so.” I pulled the grimoire onto my lap and turned to a fresh page. “It’s this combination, right?”