The symbol of the flame. Unconsciously, I looked around, waiting for the married couple to pass by me before I lowered my voice. “Where?”
“The Castor Volumes. I read some sections of the first three volumes years ago when I started my training. I remember seeing it there.”
“Which one?” I whispered.
“That’s the problem. Whether it was the first or second book of the twelve, I can’t remember.”
On the other end of the receiver, Lake sighed. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”
The Castor Volumes. As one of the first Sect agents, Thomas Castor had written about his early travels as he and his crew tried to discover the secrets of the phantoms and gather together the first Effigies. Each volume was hundreds of pages long, so “first or second book” didn’t help narrow things down much.
“Well, I guess we can check the library when we get back,” I said.
“We already went. They’ve both been checked out. We don’t have time to track them down and get them back. You’re at Blackwell’s estate, are you not?” Belle asked. “He’s boasted about his vast collection before. In his study. Take a look while you’re there.”
“But . . .” I looked around. There were security agents at nearly every entrance, waiting. “I mean, it’d look pretty suspicious if I went skulking around in his house, going through his stuff. There’s lot of security around too.”
“So don’t get caught, stupid.” Chae Rin was blunt, but right.
“Good luck,” Belle said before clicking off the phone.
With a sigh, I shoved my phone back into my bag.
I thought of Vasily still in the Hole. Blackwell’s former right-hand man. The Council’s representative had already disavowed himself of Vasily, and, according to Brendan, all investigations had so far supported his innocence. But I still couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t risk tipping him off. I also couldn’t just ask the security guards where the study was. Who could I ask?
I wandered around, through the corridors, past a kitchen full of busy cooks and frantic catering staff running in and out, no time to talk. I asked some dignitaries, but they didn’t know either. I knew I was lost when I found myself in front of a set of glass doors leading outside.
On the other side of the glass, a woman sat alone, gazing out into the starry night through the wooden bars of her gazebo. Did she live here? Maybe she was related to Blackwell. Wife? I didn’t see a ring on any of her fingers. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask for some directions, as long as I made up a lie to cover myself.
I walked along the stone cobbled path leading to the center of the courtyard. It smelled like spring here—mint and jasmine and other fragrances I couldn’t identify—they peppered the air, seeping in through the skin, calming my nerves.
“Hello?” I called, and when she looked at me, my breath caught in my throat. She was actually stunning. Her faded brown eyes had been watching the nearby fountain in quiet contemplation, but now they were trained on me. Her face was pale but for the blush of her cheeks. She was definitely older than me, but with the youthfulness of her face it was hard to pinpoint her age. The long, twisting hair draping down her slender back was dark as night.
“Are you lost?” She had an American accent. Her voice was as delicate as she looked.
Her voice. It felt so familiar. She looked almost frail, but regal, as much as the statue on the other side of the fountain—another white stone woman carrying a pearl in her hands to match the one in the reception hall. “Maia, are you lost?”
I blinked. “You know me? Oh, yeah.” I winced with embarrassment. “?’Course you do. Everyone does.”
She laughed softly. An elegant and feminine sound. Her voice . . . I remembered its gentle strength. But from where?
“Actually,” I said, trying to stay on track. “I’m here on duty. I was told by Director Prince that Blackwell needed something out of his study.”
She tilted her head, curious. “Director Prince asked you to get that?”
“It’s urgent,” I lied. “Do you by chance know where I can find it? Do you live here?”
“I don’t live here.” Contemplatively, she rubbed the bare skin of her right middle finger. “But Blackwell’s personal study is in the basement. If you go back to the reception hall and turn to the left, you’ll find a set of stairs going down.”
So I had to go all the way back. Great. But at least I was on the right track now.
“Thank you,” I said, and turned to leave.
“Maia . . .”
I stopped. It’s true that being a celebrity gave people a false sense of intimacy. They talked to you as if they knew you, as if you went bowling together every Sunday. But the way this woman called my name so easily unsettled me in a different way. “What is it that Blackwell is looking for?” she asked. “From his study?”
I cleared my throat to buy time while I thought. “Uh, that’s classified. It’s very important business.” I nodded sturdily as if it made the lie sound somehow more official.
“Be careful.”
“Oh, um. Yes.”
Her eyes were deep, dark wells, the kind that hold too many secrets. Beautiful . . . but creepy. My muscles tensed and my feet were itching to take me in the opposite direction, but there was something nagging at me.
“By the way . . .” I leaned in and searched her face. “This is going to sound weird, but have we met?”
It wasn’t just her voice. There was something about her face, its chiseled structure, about the way her deep brown eyes twinkled with mischief as she smiled. “Yes and no.”
Not cryptic at all. “Okay . . . um . . .” I shook my head. This lady was clearly taking the whole mysterious-woman thing a little too seriously. As if she weren’t being creepy enough. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve done so well, Maia,” she said. “Go now. Do what you need to do.”
17
I RETRACED MY STEPS BACK to the reception hall and found the right set of plain pine stairs leading down into the basement, which looked as majestic and well decorated as the main floor. It was all hand-carved wood and oak, mahogany floors, golden rims, Persian rugs, and silver doorknobs. There weren’t as many people down here—a few drifting patrons, a couple of catering staff. Even asking one for directions, I wasn’t sure if I’d find the right room until I came to a set of double doors around a corner—guarded. A single security guard had been stationed next to the doors. I ducked out of his sight.
“Crane, checkpoint twelve, all clear,” he said into his comm—that is, until he saw me rounding the corner.
“What are you doing here?” He looked shocked to see me. Maybe a little excited. He was a young guy, and he didn’t quite have that stone-cold security glare down like some of his colleagues. But whatever excitement had flashed in his eyes passed quickly. He tilted his chin to the side as if he were about to speak into his communication device again.
“Wait!” I said, putting up a hand to stop him. “Um, this is Blackwell’s study, right?”