“Do you want to help me?” I had a large pile of papers to get through, after all. But Blackwood quickly put down what he was reading.
“I really shouldn’t involve myself.” He handed me the paper delicately, as though it would bite him. “But tell me if you find something.” He knelt on the floor to pick up some scattered pages. He got caught up in one of them—they were interesting, after all—and sat there quite at ease and informal. When I’d first met him, the idea of Blackwood sitting on the floor would have been a ridiculous one. What a difference a few months made.
“If I find anything important, you’ll be the first person I tell,” I said.
“Good,” he replied. He gazed back into the fire, a distant expression on his face.
“What is it?” I asked. He shook his head.
“It’s nothing. Read as long as you’d like.” He was on his feet with a speed and grace that bordered on feline, and was gone.
The only sound in the room was a log snapping in the hearth as an hour crept by. I ate the gingerbread, careful not to get crumbs everywhere, and read until my eyes were blurry.
For the next two days, that was my routine. Wake, train with Valens, patrol the barrier when it was my turn, and in the evening read in the library. I went painstakingly through every scrap of paper, but while they were fascinating, they were also fundamentally useless.
The magical trunk regurgitated the oddest bits and bobs. I found a tin soldier that turned into a living caterpillar when touched. There was a powder that made my skin itch and turn green, twenty empty snuffboxes, and a tiny hand mirror with what appeared to be a crystallized thumbprint in the center. When I touched the print, for two seconds I had the most intense flash of an image: a young girl, approximately my age, with dark skin and beautiful bright eyes. She smiled in a pink silk gown. The image vanished when I dropped the mirror in surprise.
Indeed, Mickelmas had millions of secrets.
Stories of famous and irascible magicians filled the pages of his books; histories of the great Washing Tub War of 1745, in which two magicians, Esther Holloway and Tobias Small, engaged in a duel to see who could scrub all the linen in London by magic alone. There were mentions of Ralph Strangewayes, the founder of English magicianship, and his wild abilities to summon beasts from the air and bring forth gold from the ground.
When it came to the Ancients’ war, though, only the standard order of events could be found: Mickelmas and Willoughby (and Blackwood’s father, Charles, but no books contained that piece of information) opened a tear in reality twelve years ago. R’hlem and his creatures came through that tear. Even after all this time, little was known of R’hlem himself. His powers included the ability to rip all the flesh from someone’s bones with nary a thought, and he clearly had some other psychic abilities—I had met him on the magicians’ astral plane, after all. But suppose he had other powers, ones he had not yet shown to us all? Our knowledge of him was so sketchy, even compared to how little we knew of the other Ancients.
On the third night of reading well past the time I should have been asleep, I was growing frustrated with myself. The fire was low, and my temples throbbed. I rubbed my eyes before standing to stretch, my corset pinching me in the ribs.
I should go up to Lilly soon and prepare for bed. It wouldn’t do to keep her waiting too long.
But I couldn’t help looking back at one of the pictures of R’hlem’s victims. I’d stumbled upon a rather grisly description of how he liked to skin people. He started with the hands, ripping the flesh away while the poor bastard watched himself being flayed alive. I imagined myself screaming as he peeled me like an orange.
The door creaked open. My fingers burst into flame on instinct.
“Henrietta?” Rook came to me, cap in his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Groaning, I put my fire out and flung my arms around him, my heart hammering. “I was just scaring myself. I’m very good at it,” I muttered. Rook squeezed me back. For one sweet moment I didn’t think about monsters. Rook released me, taking a polite step away.
Again, always the image of politeness. Sighing, I grabbed the book I’d been reading from off the floor.
“I was afraid I’d miss seeing you,” he said, stepping toward me again. This was our dance now: he would move near, and then shy away like a colt. Frustration churned inside me.
Perhaps all he needed was a little encouragement? But I didn’t even know how to begin. Flutter my eyelashes? Pretend to trip and get him to catch me? Somehow that didn’t seem like, well, us.
“How was your day?” I asked, feeling stiff and awkward. “Were the horses happy to see you?” Lord, what kinds of stables were open this late at night?
“Very happy.” He laughed, passing a hand through his golden hair. “They all insisted on an extra handful of oats.”
“You spoil them.” I drew a little closer, and he let me. Yes, that was much better.
“I’m happy to have the work.” His mouth tightened. He hated living off Blackwood’s charity. In the first days after he’d nearly died, he’d kept trying to get out of bed so he could march outside and begin looking for a job. “And you?” he asked, his expression softening.
“It’s been the most beastly day,” I murmured.
“Still reading, then.” He took the book from me and flipped through the pages. “You think there’s a way to stop the Skinless Man in here? Truly?”
“Do stay quiet about it,” I said, blushing. “I don’t want word spreading.”
“No one will know.” He caught my hand. There was a hard light in his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. “I still don’t understand why R’hlem wants you.”
Gently, I released myself and sat on the sofa. “It’s a way to show the people the sorcerers can’t even protect their great ‘chosen one.’?” My eyes rolled inadvertently whenever I said those stupid words. “Who knows? Perhaps he thinks I can do something for him.”
“He’ll never have you.” Rook sat beside me, his cap bunched in his hands.
“Of course he won’t. I’m notoriously difficult to catch,” I said lightly. That made him smile.
“You recall when we were thirteen, and your powers had just shown themselves? The things we had to do to hide them from Colegrind?”
God, the days when I’d set fire to just about anything. “When I scorched his parlor drapes?”
Rook smiled. “When you set fire to the rhododendron in the garden.” He looked rather proud. “I convinced Colegrind it was an exploding bird. ‘An act of God,’ he said.”
I pictured the pompous expression on our old headmaster’s face and burst into a giggling fit. Rook and I drew nearer. If I reached out my hand, I could touch him. Turning my head, I looked up into Rook’s eyes.
His black eyes. The sight of them made me shudder. They had once been a pale blue, but the color had shifted. Part of his gift from Korozoth. Part of his transformation. Fenswick and I had slowed it with our studies and potions, but we could contain it only so long.
Rook said, “I helped you then, and I can help you now. I could use my powers to protect you.” His hand covered my own. My heart leaped as I watched the fire’s glow play over his face, the strong line of his jaw.
I wanted to make some teasing comment, but the firelight began to die. Shadows slunk from the corner to play about our feet. Instantly, I pulled away from Rook, and the darkness vanished. He stood, cursing softly.
“We can’t play with your powers until we know how they’ll be received,” I said. Though I knew how the sorcerers would receive them; we both did.
“Of course,” he said, his tone distant.
“One day the war will be over. We’ll be free.” I got up and went beside him.
“One day,” he echoed. He touched me, only a hand on my waist. “Henrietta,” he whispered, sending a thrill down my back. And then, his black eyes searching mine, he leaned closer. Closer still.