“Well, I’ve some work to do regarding our skinless friend.”
“Then I’ll let you work.” He pressed his lips politely to my hand. God, I wanted him to be not quite so polite. “Eat your apple.” With a wink, he vanished down the hall. My body screamed to follow him, while my brain reminded me that was a frightening, uncertain prospect, and I needed to start my work anyway.
Blast. To business, then.
I went up the stairs to my room and dragged Mickelmas’s trunk out from under my bed. To the untrained eye, it looked like a perfectly serviceable wooden box with a rounded lid. A bit splintered and battered, perhaps, but good for storing linens. As with all things, though, appearances could be deceiving.
At my knock, the lid swung open and I took out the papers I had spent the past few months sorting. A thrill ran through my body whenever I handled Mickelmas’s spells. The cracked scrolls and books bound in red and green leather, gold lettering still visible along their faded spines. There was a sense of home when I held them in my hands. It wasn’t simply because I was born a magician; books offered a sense of safety for me. Taking my papers, I slid the trunk back under the bed and went downstairs. The chair by the library fire was comfortable, and I knew I’d be reading for a while.
As I headed along the halls, I wished the grand house weren’t so silent, like a mausoleum. The Blackwoods’ London manor had tiled floors, high vaulted ceilings, pillars of gold-veined green marble, and stained-glass windows with the distant remove of a church. This wasn’t a place designed for cheer. Black velvet and green damask curtains muted whispers and shut out light. Portraits of starch-collared, disapproving ancestors from different eras of English history lined the walls. Every alcove displayed some chiseled bust or sorcerer relic. A stave that had belonged to Blackwood’s father rested on display in a glass case by one of the windows. The ivy carvings upon its length were typical for Blackwood sorcerers.
And me, apparently. My stave bore a similar design.
Entering the library, I found Blackwood seated on the sofa and Eliza, standing before him, her white forehead creased.
“But why should you speak with Aubrey Foxglove?” She played with a bit of lace at her skirt, a nervous gesture. In her cream gown, with her pale skin, rosy lips, and jet-black hair styled in a pretty chignon, she looked like a modern Snow White.
“Don’t fidget,” Blackwood said, smiling as he took her hand. “His family seat is in Ireland. You’ll be safe there.” It sounded as if he’d rehearsed this speech. I coughed to make my presence known, and Eliza waved me into the room.
“George and I are only talking.” Her tone sounded forcibly cheerful. I stood a bit awkwardly looking through my papers. Yes, very fascinating papers.
Eliza continued. “You can’t be serious about Foxglove. He’s ancient!”
“Forty-two,” Blackwood said, “and in good health.”
“You told me I’d have a say.” Eliza’s voice held a warning.
“You’ll be sixteen in less than three weeks.” Blackwood was pretending to be easy and careless about the whole thing, which was so painfully stilted that I winced. “It’s tradition to announce your engagement at your debut ball.”
God, yes. Eliza’s ball was going to be massive. The war might be raging outside, but the sorcerers must have their traditions, particularly the Blackwoods.
“I know that,” Eliza said, her voice tightening. “That’s not the problem. You said I could have a choice in the matter. My choice is: not Foxglove.” Eliza sounded matter-of-fact. “You may come to me with any other suitors you’d like.” Blackwood said nothing to that, which relaxed her further. “Now. May I still go to the assembly tomorrow? It’s only at Cornelia Berry’s house.”
“I won’t be able to take you, and you know the streets are dangerous.” But he was weakening already. No matter how hard he tried to be stern, Blackwood always bent to his sister’s will. At least, he bent a little bit. Eliza swept behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“I’ve been inside for three days. I’m so bored, George. Please? Please.” She pressed her cheek to his. Blackwood, already smiling, tapped her arm.
“Fine. I’ll arrange an escort.”
“I adore you.” She kissed the top of his head. “I’m off upstairs. Good night.” She came over to kiss my cheek. Blackwood stood and watched her leave the room.
“That’s not the last we’ll hear of Foxglove, is it?” I asked as I went to sit before the fire. Poor Eliza. All her privilege came at a price: doing whatever her father or, in this case, her brother told her to do. The thought of it made me ill.
“I don’t want to worry her about it. Not yet.” He sighed. I opened my papers to an interesting discussion of eighteenth-century magicians in pre-Revolutionary France. Blackwood took up one of the pages. He read it, then reread it, his face going blank. “These are from your magician’s chest, aren’t they?”
I cleared my throat. “They’re interesting. You should read some.”
“Whitechurch told you to stay away from these. Do you ever actually listen to your superiors?”
“Yes. When I think they’re right.”
He all but groaned. “Why can’t you read novels instead?”
“I’ve categorized everything by date. Come see.” Creating systems for things made me happy. When I was a little girl, I loved alphabetizing the Brimthorn library shelves. Sometimes, for a treat, I’d sort them by color. I’d tried to show Rook how fun it was, but he’d always fall to the floor and pretend to be dead.
Blackwood pinched the bridge of his nose. But then he sat on the sofa, his weight beside me a comfort.
“Do you think there’ll be anything to help us?”
“Any detail about R’hlem, no matter how insignificant, could give me something.” I turned a page. I would have dearly loved to stay on the Napoleonic Wars, but I needed to work fast.
“And what insignificant details are you looking for?”
“Any books I’ve read on the Ancients and their tactics came from sorcerer scholars. No one’s investigated magician theories in all of this.”
“Magicians don’t much care about the war.” Blackwood didn’t say it dismissively. “The Order made sure of that.”
Public use of magician craft had been banned in England for over a decade. Terrible things were done to those caught practicing. It was why I’d been so desperately afraid when Mickelmas revealed my magician heritage to me. “Then think. If I find something useful, it could change the Imperator’s mind about magicians.” I wasn’t holding my breath on that, but why not hope?
The door opened, and one of the footmen carried in a tray laden with an exquisite china set. He placed it on a table before us and poured steaming chocolate into two delicate cups. The scent warmed me at once, and—yes!—he’d even included a plate of fresh gingerbread. My favorite. Blackwood handed me a cup, looking pleased with himself.
“How did you know I’d be reading in here?” I immediately snatched up some of the gingerbread.
“You always read in the evenings. I know you too well.”
“Oh? I must be very dull.”
Blackwood considered this a moment. “No. I believe I like anticipating you.”
“Am I that easy to predict?” I blew on the chocolate and sipped.
“I like a good routine.” He was reading another of the papers intently and placed his hand on the sofa, brushing the edge of my dress. I moved myself a bit farther down the couch. He meant nothing by it, of course, but one could become too comfortable.