Harper took the bait and made the obvious statement. “This building only has thirty-eight floors.”
“Most of the time that’s true.” Madison handed Harper a piece of plastic that looked like someone had taken an electronic access card and cut it into the shape of an old-fashioned key. “Use this in the elevator, and it will have thirty-nine.”
She slid a small clear box and a white candle across her desk. “When you get off the elevator, tap the top of the box three times. That will activate the spell that gives you safe passage in and out of the archives.”
“Safe passage?” Harper asked.
“Trust me. The files that we store there are the most important documents the firm possesses. It is imperative that they not be seen by anyone without permission. The Unseen Archives are on the thirty-ninth floor because the floor is equipped with a magical self-destruct that will destroy it if there’s a breach of access. Use the spell.”
Harper felt her knees actually go weak and was glad she was already sitting down. “A magical self-destruct.”
Madison nodded. “It will take out the entire archive and everything—and everyone—in it. In theory, the rest of the building will be fine, but we don’t have offices on thirty-eight. Just in case.”
Harper considered the cost of an entire floor of Manhattan real estate left empty. “I . . . Are you sure you don’t need someone more magical to do this?”
“The spells I’m giving you are set up like the self-triggering wards. You don’t need magic. You just need to follow instructions. But if you don’t feel comfortable, I’ll pass this to someone else.”
Secrets were in the archives. Which meant that if there was anything in this building that would help her find out what actually happened to Rose, this was where it would be. “No, I can handle it. Tap the box three times for safe passage. And the candle?”
“Light it magically once you’re in there, and it will trigger the room’s lights and help you find the files. Good luck.”
The key worked easily enough. The elevator rose smoothly to thirty-eight, then paused and hopped up one final floor. There was no number in the display, but a symbol of a box, like the one Harper held in her hand.
She stepped off the elevator into a grey concrete room that was—as far as she could tell—empty. She tapped the top of the box three times.
Pink cotton-candy-scented smoke curled out of the box and thickened. For a very long minute, while Harper prayed not to be vaporized, the smoke was all she could see. Then it disappeared, and she realized that she was not in a grey concrete room at all. She was in a room that looked like an elegant library. A very large, elegant library. Windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and green plants vined down the walls. There were worn wood floors and long tables, and there were files. Shelf after shelf after shelf of files.
Harper braced for the headache and lit the candle. As she did, lights flicked on—wall sconces and an enormous chandelier. She looked around for a reference, a card catalog, anything that would let her know where to begin looking. Nothing. She walked over to the closed shelf and pulled down a file—no name and blank pages. She looked again at the candle—Madison had said it would help her find the files. She held it up—there. Where the light from the candle shone, the file was illuminated.
It was not the Prospero disinheritance. It was something to do with the purchase of the land underneath what was now House Dee and whether magic could be used as consideration in the sale. The next file was also not the Prospero disinheritance. Neither was the next. Nor were they in any order that she could figure out. Contracts were next to divorce proceedings were next to wills were next to intellectual property licenses. Apparently, it was possible to patent a spell.
She picked up her phone to text Madison, to see if there was any other spell she was supposed to use to figure out the filing system. “That can’t be right.” The time on her lock screen was the same as the time stamp she had put on the memo she’d sent to Madison earlier that day. Her stomach rumbled, suggesting that a significant amount of time had passed since lunch.
“This is too weird.” Harper blew out her candle and got back on the elevator. As it descended, her phone recalibrated. 7:47 p.m. She’d been in the archives for almost four hours.
“Sorry about that,” Madison said. “Time is . . . weird up there. We keep watches—ones you actually have to wind. I’ll get one for you to use. And go ahead and order in food tonight and expense it. I should have remembered to warn you.”
“Thanks,” Harper said. “And the filing?”
Madison looked away. “I’ll see what I can do, but it might take some time. I’ll need to consult outside the firm. For now, keep looking and hope you get lucky.”
? ? ?
It was the first of the challenges that were required to invoke mortality—Lara Merlin casting against Bryce Dee—and the room was packed full of magicians who resembled nothing as much as circling sharks. The failures of magic had continued, had—it seemed—increased. Not just during challenges, but simple spells, casual magics, glamours and illusions simply deciding not to work. And as the failures continued, the speculations over their causes increased. One of the louder theories was that things were somehow Miles Merlin’s fault—that his magic had grown weak, that his control was slipping. As the head of the Unseen World went, so did magic. It would balance things out, the whispers went, if his daughter died to pay his debt.
Sydney wanted to spit. She had no patience for Miles, but even less for those who would visit the sins of the father onto his child.
“I hear this is your fault. You stole our magic when you snuck out of that place.” An older man, face red enough to suggest he’d been drinking for quite some time, stepped in front of Sydney. She stepped around, then found herself yanked back, his hand squeezing her arm. “I’m talking to you, bitch.”
“I have no interest in listening.” She bent the index and ring fingers on her left hand, and the man yanked his own hand back, as if from a hot stove. He continued to mumble slurs and rage as she walked away but had enough self-preservation not to follow.
Had tonight’s duel been between almost anyone else, Sydney would have stayed home. She had no great desire to watch people destroy each other for the amusement of a crowd. But Ian, she knew, loved his sister.
She continued through the room, and stopped when she reached him.
He stood alone at the front of the crowd, his hands fisted at his sides, the bones pressing white against his skin. “I couldn’t not be here. I didn’t want to be, but I couldn’t stay away.”