“They’re beautiful,” she breathed, mesmerized. “Did you ink them into your skin yourself?”
Petra lowered her dress hem. Something prideful flashed in her eyes. “They aren’t done with ink,” she said. “It’s an ash I made myself. After a few weeks here, I started dreaming of the battle at Montélimar. The flames destroying the lavender fields. I realized that was a sign: something charred and transformed. I etched these tattoos with a sharpened chicken bone and all kinds of burned life-essence, but the answer was so obvious. Mada Zola’s crux was lavender. Mine is lavender ash—well, I think. I need a few more weeks to finish the tattoo I have in mind, see if a new dream comes to me.”
A bird cawed overhead and Anouk tipped her head up and studied the ceiling.
“It’s the falconry mews,” Petra explained. “They’re directly above our bedroom, in the abbey tower. It’s where the Duke keeps his birds and maintains communication with the Royals. It’s forbidden to the acolytes, except for Marta, who’s in charge of cleaning all the animal cages.”
Anouk’s hand drifted to her neck. “Does he keep it locked?”
Petra narrowed her eyes. “What are you scheming?”
Anouk leaned forward. “When he took my magic, he enchanted it into a ball of light that he trapped in a bell around Saint’s neck. You said yourself that it’s crazy to come here with only six weeks before the Baths. But it wouldn’t be crazy if I had my magic. Then I could whisper a spell in the library that would show me my crux.”
Petra didn’t look convinced. “Saint doesn’t live in the mews with the other falcons. He has a stand in the Duke’s chambers. They’re never apart, not even when the Duke is sleeping.” She tapped her chin. “If he sleeps. He’s always up roaming the halls with a book in his hand, even in the early hours of the morning.”
Anouk fiddled with her sweater sleeves, thinking.
Petra nudged Anouk’s knee with her toe. “Where’s that gorgeous jacket of yours? The Faustine.”
“I left it with Beau down in the cellar so he’d at least have a familiar scent. Would it really be so dangerous for him to be loose? The Duke assured me he’d be eaten.”
“Hmm. Maybe; these woods are mysterious. Mada Zola told me she thought she’d met her own double there, but it turned out to be some kind of mirror creature. And there are boys and girls made of snow—”
Anouk raised her eyebrows. “I met Jak.”
“You’re lucky. Jak is the most tenderhearted of them.” She reached out and squeezed Anouk’s foot. “The Duke put me in charge of his filing—it’s a nightmare of paperwork—but I have more free time than the others. I’ll go down and visit Beau when I can.” She yawned. “Dieu, it must be one in the morning. You’d better sleep if you have to be up at dawn to make breakfast. Actually, thank God you’re here. It’s been gruel for weeks.”
Anouk gave her a smile, not sure how to convey how glad she was that Petra was here. She peeled off the sweater and her layers of warm clothes, folded them, put them in the trunk at the foot of her bed, and changed into the loose cotton shift that Esme had included in the stack of clean clothes. She closed the trunk. Her heart ached for her old room, the townhouse full of books, the closets full of beautiful clothes. She was about to climb into bed, but marks on the lid of the trunk caught her eye. Girls’ names. There must have been hundreds, most of them so faded they were illegible. She grazed her fingers over the carvings.
“All the girls who have been here before us,” Petra explained quietly, lying down in her own bed and pulling a blanket up to her chin. “Most—if not all—of them dead now.”
A chill ruffled the hem of Anouk’s nightgown. Viggo had warned her about the Cottage. She pictured him at Castle Ides, playing checkers with Goblins while drinking brandy, and something pulled taut in her chest.
She considered opening the trunk again and taking out her mirror. Checking one more time to see whether Luc was still a mouse or if Rennar had kept his promise. But in such a small room, it would be impossible to hide the mirror from Petra. And though she trusted Petra, she didn’t trust the Cottage. Who knew what spy holes might be in the walls of their room, what girls or falcons might be listening outside the door? She couldn’t risk the Duke thinking that that she still had the use of magic. She sat on the trunk, frowning.
“Anouk,” Petra said in a serious tone, “how are you going to find your crux with just a few weeks left?”
Anouk drew in a deep breath. Beau, Cricket, Luc, Hunter Black—they needed her to succeed. It wasn’t just her own fate on the line. She glanced out the window, saw the moon high overhead. “Esme showed me the library. Is it open all night?”
If there were a million possible ways for a girl to discover her crux, then she’d better get started. She could try prayer, like Esme. Or touch all the samples of life-essences in the storerooms. Or jog through the snow barefoot, like Sam. But spells had always held a special place in her heart, as had the Selentium Vox. She might as well begin there.
Petra made a face. “You aren’t seriously going to stay up all night.”
“Tonight and every night. As long as it takes.” She slid her feet into the coarse wool slippers she’d found by her bed, lit a candle, and headed for the library.
Chapter 11
For days, Anouk’s world was filled with books. She spent every minute between her kitchen shifts in the library, bent over a dusty volume. She memorized hundreds of new phrases in the Selentium Vox. She learned the eleven words that meant “night,” the four words that meant “day.” She found a yellowing old volume on a top shelf that had been handwritten by one of the original Royals, an ancient baron of the Lunar Court, the pages so old they barely stayed intact in her hands. She memorized spells for withering trees, tricks for flooding a riverbed, whispers for mending a broken heart. Marta kept her company, though she was such an unobtrusive soul that Anouk often forgot she was there. Marta liked to study while wrapped up in a blanket on the floor, stacks of books around her, eating from a jar of pickled black walnuts. Anouk had glanced at Marta’s books—they were mostly political theory of the Haute and histories of the ancient Royals. When Marta read, it was like the world stood still; the only sounds were pages turning and walnuts being nibbled.
Anouk rubbed her eyes. She’d been at the Cottage for a week and didn’t have a clue what her crux might be. No lightning had struck her when she’d read references to sunflowers. She’d gotten no flashes of insight when she learned the Selentium Vox words for “fox fur.” She slammed her most recent book shut—a genealogy of previous witches and their cruxes—and opened a new one at random. Her candle flickered over a page streaked with dust. Her eyes snagged on one phrase.
Gray rainbows
She was suddenly aware of how quiet the library was. She frowned and scooted the book closer. It had been handwritten by the Pretty monks who lived here centuries ago. Gray rainbows. It was eerily similar to the plagues in London that Rennar had told her about. Black rainbows, he had said. Could it be a coincidence? She held her candle closer and kept reading.
. . . besieged by the curse, overtaken by the plagues. The triple moons and gray rainbows. Rainstorms of worms. Dublin . . . to Prague. A madness over the population . . . they call it . . . the Noirceur . . .
“The Noirceur,” she whispered to herself. The book was badly damaged, though the words were legible. She scanned the next few pages, which told of plagues that were similar to what was happening in London. Gray rainbows in the past, black rainbows now. Triple moons before, double moons now. Rainstorms of worms then, falling toads now. How could history written about centuries ago in a random book be repeating itself?
She ripped out the pages and put them in her pocket before rifling through the rest of the book for similar references.
. . . worms falling from the sky . . .
. . . the Noirceur, the Darktime . . .
She ripped out those pages too. She skimmed through the rest of the book unti
l her candle burned out, and the next night, she moved onto another book written by the same monk. She spent long nights poring over the books, hoping for another passage that might explain the odd references.
One night a week later, Marta stuck her head around the shelves, startling Anouk. Marta grinned. “I’m going to get some of the leftover bread from supper. Do you want anything?”
Anouk hesitated, and then, before she could stop herself, she took out one of the pages that she’d been collecting throughout the week. She smoothed it out and tapped a word.
“Marta, have you ever come across references to something called the Noirceur?”
Marta blinked, thinking. “Not that I recall.”
“Or plagues? Strange phenomena like creatures raining down from the sky, multiple moons, that sort of thing?”
Marta cocked her head. “There are some accounts like that, legends about the early Royals. About the Snowfire Court, what is now part of the Hammer Court, far north in Siberia and Scandinavia. And there are a few ballads about the mystical King Svatyr and Queen Mid Ruath and how they banished a dark evil while dressed in fabulous bearskin cloaks and wearing glittering powder on their lips. Sometimes that ‘evil’ is referred to as plagues. The accounts of King Svatyr and Queen Mid Ruath aren’t in any of these books, though. I saw them in the Duke’s personal library while I was feeding Saint. I used to browse through the books until he caught me. Since then he doesn’t let me feed Saint unless he’s there.”
Anouk ran her finger over the page, thinking.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Marta said hesitantly, adjusting her glasses. She motioned to the stack of books by Anouk’s side. “But I don’t think you’re going to find your crux through study. You’ve been at it for almost two weeks. If you’re on the right path, you don’t fall asleep with your face in a book.” She motioned to a drool stain on Anouk’s collar. Anouk wiped it away guiltily. Marta grinned. “You need to find something that makes your soul sing. That fills you with joy like you’ve never known. Only that feeling can guide you to your crux.”
Anouk looked around at the dreary library, at the desiccated books and the cold stone floors, so different from Mada Vittora’s cozy library with its overstuffed chairs. If spending hours hidden away in here brought Marta such ecstatic joy, maybe Anouk was on the wrong path.
Marta leaned forward, pushing her glasses up. “You have something in you, Anouk. A fire. It was clear the night you arrived.” She touched her own chest. “You want magic as bad as I do.”
Anouk raised an eyebrow. “How did you learn about the Haute?”
Marta let out a puff of air and said dreamily, “I was in my first year at university. I was studying in a café for end-of-term exams. The café closed for the night, and I left to find a place where I could continue reading. I wandered the city and came across a drunk guy by the river. I was afraid he’d try to drown himself. He saw me calling to him and laughed. He said, ‘Can’t you see, pretty girl, that I’m walking on the water? Of course you can’t. Your eyes are closed. Here, my pretty. See.’ He raised the glamour and I saw him for what he was—a Royal. A minor count of the Minaret Court. That night, we sat on the riverbank and drank his wine and he told me about millennia of magic, of powerful spells, of passionate Royal affairs. I forgot about my exams. What did I care about school anymore after learning about the Haute? Screw the exams. Screw my degree. I wanted magic.”
“Didn’t he glamour you once the sun rose?” Anouk asked.
Marta grinned and shook her head. “He passed out. I’m not sure he ever remembered our conversation. Or me.” Her face grew serious, and she rested a hand on Anouk’s arm. “Do yourself a favor and stop torturing yourself with these texts. Try prayer, maybe?”
Anouk wrinkled her nose.
The antler clock in the great hall chimed three o’clock in the morning, the sound echoing through the entire abbey and reaching them in the library.
“Chores.” Marta sighed.
Anouk perked up. “Could we swap?”
“Me make breakfast? I can’t even boil water.”
“Just for today.”
Anouk didn’t say anything about Little Beau, but she didn’t have to. Marta seemed to understand. She reached into her pocket and set a piece of biscuit on the desk. “Just for today. Here. Give your dog this. I saved it from yesterday’s breakfast. We all like him, you know.”
Anouk briefly debated telling Marta that Little Beau was actually a boy with shaggy hair and a love of fast cars, but then she took the biscuit and closed her books. It wasn’t until she was halfway down the cellar stairs that it hit her: as soon as winter fell, just a few short weeks away, she or Marta or, most likely, both of them would be dead, as would Esme and Petra and all the other girls.
Her thoughts were dark as she descended the stairs.
“Sang vivik.”
Anouk shrieked and pressed a hand to her chest. She wasn’t alone. Frederika was lurking on the landing. Her hair was its usual wild black storm cloud. Her eyebrows shadowed her eyes into dark pools.
“Frederika!” Anouk swallowed. “What did you say?”
In the two weeks Anouk had been at the Cottage, Frederika hadn’t spoken a single word to her. She rarely spoke to anyone except Sam, who did the laundry, and then only to tell her that she’d torn another one of her dresses while exercising in the courtyard. Still, Anouk had felt Frederika’s glistening eyes fixed on her at every meal.
“Sang vivik,” Frederika repeated.
Anouk’s eyebrows rose. She glanced toward the top of the stairs, wondering if anyone else was within earshot. “Is that in the Selentium Vox? Something about blood? I don’t know that usage of vivik.”
“A witch took two of your toes. Esme says.”
Anouk glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. It was after three o’clock in the morning. Karla and Lise should be there, up early to start making the daily bread, but they were both notoriously deep sleepers, and they knew that Anouk, the head chef, wouldn’t scold them too severely. No sounds came from the kitchen.
“That’s right.” Anouk’s toes curled in her shoes.
Frederika lifted two fingers to her mouth and started gently gnawing on them, all the while staring at Anouk.
“Are you all right?” Anouk took a step down the stairs, away from her. Maybe Frederika was nervous about the delivery the previous day—just after breakfast, two enchanted Pretties had shown up leading a string of mules loaded down with firewood, having just barely survived the precarious mountain path. They carried in load after load until half the courtyard was filled with stacks of wood. It had shaken Anouk when she realized that preparations were already beginning for the Coal Baths. Tomorrow, Duke Karolinge would begin the grueling, four-week-long process of whispering the wood into coals that would form the basis of the trials. Then, the Coals would need the magic of the Royal Courts to convert them into blue flame. Rennar would be there. She’d confront him about why he hadn’t turned Luc back yet. She’d force a promise out of him—one sealed in magic this time.
Suddenly, Frederika pulled her fingers out of her mouth and dropped to the floor. She started doing pushups on the landing, counting out the numbers in German.
Anouk took another step away from her, then made her way down to the cellar as quickly as she could. When she got there, she closed herself up in the stall with Little Beau and swept him into a hug.
“Beau,” she breathed into his fur. “This place is getting to me. What’s my crux? I haven’t had any insight. Nothing’s called to me. If I learned anything from the Goblins, it’s that I’m not drawn to rats or cockroaches. I know it isn’t roses, like Mada Vittora’s crux. I like thyme, but that’s only because it reminds me of Luc.” She groaned. “This would be easy if I had my magic.”
Little Beau went to the stall corner, took her Faustine jacket in his mouth, and dragged it over to her. He nudged it into her lap and ran his bandaged paw over the winged creatur
e on the back. He whined softly.
Anouk reached out and scratched his head. She pulled the jacket up over the both of them, and they lay in the straw and slept a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 12
Late November bled into December, and every morning when Anouk passed through the glass-enclosed hallway outside of the courtyard on her way to prepare breakfast, she saw Duke Karolinge whispering to the coals. At the break of dawn, he would swallow a powder of rosemary and pine bark that he ground himself and then whisper into the piles of firewood. They sparked and smoked. Day after day Anouk watched the wood transform from fresh-cut logs into chunks of blackened charcoal, reducing more and more until they were each the size of her fist. More mules arrived, carrying supplies for the coming Royals and the Eve Feast: Crates of fine wine. Silk linens for the guest rooms on the upper floors. Truffles and lavender soap and argan oil, until the Cottage’s normally sparse pantry was bursting with exotic treats.
She did her best to find time to visit Little Beau. She kept her distance from Frederika, who’d taken to stalking behind her around the abbey like a shadow. She checked Rennar’s mirror obsessively, growing more worried as each day passed and Luc remained a mouse. It occurred to her that maybe the plagues in London were part of the reason why Rennar hadn’t held up his side of their bargain. What if he’d managed to get into the city on his own? What if he’d already faced the Coven of Oxford without her? She found herself worried for his safety, and that made her worry for her own sanity.
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