The drawer smells like wood and leather. The room smells like leather and steel and the forest, like the Mage himself. I open the other drawers with my hand. There aren’t any booby traps. There’s nothing personal at all. I’m not even sure what to take for Fiona. A book, maybe.
I hold my flame up to the bookshelves and think about blowing, just setting the whole room on fire. But then I notice that the books are all out of order. Obviously out of order. Stacked, instead of set on their shelves—some of them lying in piles on the floor. I feel like putting them back, sorting them by subject the way my mother used to. (I was always allowed to touch her books. I was allowed to read any book, as long as I put it back in its place and promised to ask if something confused or frightened me.)
Maybe I should take advantage of the fact that the books are out of order: No one will notice if one goes missing—or several. I reach for one with a dragon embossed on the spine; the dragon’s mouth is open, and fire spews out forming the title: Flames and Blazes—The Art of Burning.
A shaft of light widens on the shelf before me, and I jerk around, sending the book sailing, pages flapping. Something flies out as the book hits the floor.
Snow is standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he demands. His blade is already out.
I’ve seen that sword in action enough, you’d think I’d be terrified—but instead it’s reassuring. I’ve dealt with this, with Snow, before.
I must truly be exhausted, because I tell him the truth: “Looking for one of my mother’s books.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says, both hands on his sword.
I hold my light higher and step away from the shelves. “I’m not hurting anything. I just want a book.”
“Why?” He looks down at the book lying between us and rushes forward, abandoning his stance to beat me to it. I lean back against the shelves and swing one ankle over the other. Snow’s crouching over the book. He probably thinks it’s a clue, the thing that will blow my conspiracy wide open.
He stands again, staring at a small piece of paper in his hand. He looks upset. “Here,” he says softly, holding it out to me. “I’m … sorry.”
I take the paper, a photograph, and he watches me. I’m tempted to shove it in my pocket and look at it later, but curiosity gets the best of me, and I hold it up.…
It’s me.
Down in the crèche, I think. (Watford used to have a staff nursery and day school; it’s where the vampires struck.)
I’m just a baby in this photo. Three or four years old, wearing soft grey dungarees with bloomer bottoms, and white leather boots. My skin is the shocking thing: a stark reddish gold against my white collared shirt and white socks. I’m smiling at the camera, and someone’s holding my fingers—
I recognize my mother’s wedding ring. I recognize her thick, rough hand.
And then I can remember her hand. Resting on my leg when she wanted me to be still. Holding her wand precisely in the air. Slipping into her desk drawer to get a sweet and popping it into her mouth.
“Your hands are scratchy,” I’d say when she cupped one around my cheek.
“They’re fire-holders’ hands,” she’d say. “Flame throwers’.”
My mother’s hands scuffing my cheek. Tucking my hair behind my ears.
My mother’s hands held aloft—setting the air of the nursery on fire while a chalk-skinned monster buried his teeth in my throat.
“Baz…,” Snow says. He’s picked up the book and is holding it out to me.
I take it.
“I need to tell you something,” he says.
“What?” Since when do Snow and I have anything to tell each other?
“I need to talk to you.”
I raise my chin. “Talk, then.”
“Not here.” He sheathes his blade. “We’re not supposed to be here, and … what I have to tell you is sort of private.”