Elisabeth’s mind spun sickeningly. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to fight, but she couldn’t so much as twitch her little finger.
“You should have sent more fiends, master. You should have ended this instead of drawing it out. Now you can no longer kill her. There are too many humans involved.”
“The intention,” said Ashcroft, “was never to kill her. I merely required an excuse to bring her here. We have only just begun, Lorelei. Whatever mistake occurred in Summershall, I can’t afford to make it again. There must be no more surviving witnesses.”
“Then what are we to do with her?” Lorelei spat.
“Who’s to say she’s a witness? She may have seen nothing.”
“Even if that is true, she will prove a liability.”
Ashcroft stood. “I know how to deal with her. Lay her out on the floor, please, Lorelei. As if she’s taken a fall. Make it look convincing. Then leave us and fetch Hannah.”
The demon’s cold hands curled under Elisabeth’s armpits. “You are infuriating, master,” she murmured.
“Ah, but that is precisely why my life tastes so exceptional to you demons.” He raised the crystal glass, reflecting prisms across his handsome face, and winked. “The bolder and brighter the spirit, the finer the vintage.”
Elisabeth’s cheek pressed against the wool carpet. Now she could only see an expanse of patterned fibers awash in the ruddy glow of the hearth. Thoughts circled in her head like vultures, bleak and inescapable, as Lorelei arranged her boneless limbs: Ashcroft was the saboteur. He had killed the Director. He had sent the fiends. He was responsible for it all. Nothing seemed real—not the roughness of the carpet against her cheek, nor the warmth of the fireplace soaking her gown. A chill settled deep inside her. Earlier that day, she had come within seconds of sealing her own fate by telling Ashcroft what she knew.
Lorelei’s steps receded. A moment later, a gentle touch alit on Elisabeth’s shoulder. She flinched—a real flinch, a physical reaction. The glamour was wearing off.
“Miss Scrivener?” Ashcroft asked softly. “Miss Scrivener, can you hear me?”
She wanted nothing more than to fly upright, to defend herself, to scream loud enough to rouse the entire manor, but her only hope of survival was to play along. She raised herself on her elbows, her hair hanging in a curtain around her face. The sour burn of champagne crept up her throat, and her stomach roiled.
“Do you remember anything? Are you hurt? Allow me to help you.”
“I don’t . . .” Elisabeth shook her head, keeping her face downcast as Ashcroft assisted her upright. She stumbled over a wrinkle in the carpet.
“Careful, now. You’ve taken quite the fall. Hannah”—the door opened—“could you return Miss Scrivener to her room? She seems to have had an accident.”
“Oh, Miss Scrivener!” Hannah exclaimed.
A flurry of conversation followed, most of which Elisabeth did not hear, her head pounding numbly with horror. Ashcroft had never intended for the fiends to kill her. He had expected her and Nathaniel to fight them off, and for the event to reach the papers. He had engineered the entire thing so that he would have an excuse to call off the Magisterium’s questioning and bring Elisabeth here, to his manor, as his guest.
As his prisoner.
“Yes,” Ashcroft was saying, “she entered the study and simply collapsed—I’ve no idea what she was doing wandering around the manor. . . .”
“Oh, sir, I’m so terribly sorry! I’m afraid that must be my fault! I looked for her everywhere—”
“Please don’t blame yourself,” Ashcroft said kindly. “I will call for a physician first thing in the morning. Rest assured that Miss Scrivener will receive nothing but the finest care.”
• • •
The next day, Elisabeth sat staring at the silver molding on the bedroom’s wall as the physician’s stethoscope pressed against her chest. She had spent the last twenty minutes breathing in and out according to his instructions, allowing him to peer into her mouth, eyes, and ears, and sitting still as he probed her neck and underarms, muttering indistinctly about glands.
While she waited, she clung grimly to hope. Ashcroft didn’t know that she had overheard everything last night. All she needed was a moment alone with the physician, and she could explain the situation and get help. But Hannah, who had fussed over her all morning, refused to leave her side. She sat on the plush white love seat beside the bed, wringing her hands. Mr. Hob stood near the door, waiting to show the physician back downstairs.
Elisabeth couldn’t trust anyone except the physician. If Hannah was any indication, the servants held their employer in high esteem. At best, she wouldn’t believe Elisabeth; at worst, she’d go directly to Ashcroft. And if she did, Elisabeth would be doomed.
“Hmmm,” the physician said as he removed the stethoscope’s ivory trumpet. He jotted something down in his notebook, frowning.
She wouldn’t be surprised if her heartbeat sounded abnormal. She could barely sit still, and she hadn’t slept. The reflection in the vanity’s mirror showed that she was as pale as a ghost, with dark circles beneath her eyes.
“And you say that you grew up in a library,” the physician went on. “Interesting. Do you read many books, Miss Scrivener? Novels?”
“Yes, of course. As many as I can. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Hmmm. Just as I thought.” He scribbled another note. “An excess of novel reading, combined with the excitement of the past few days . . .”
She failed to see how any of this was relevant. “May I speak to you alone?” she asked.
“Of course, Miss Scrivener,” he replied, in a mild, indulgent tone that raised her hackles. But at least he dismissed Hannah and Mr. Hob from the room. “What is it you would like to speak to me about?”
Elisabeth took a deep breath, waiting until the door clicked shut. Then she launched into an explanation immediately, racing through the details of the aetherial combustion in Summershall, the attempt on her life the night before last, and what she had witnessed in Ashcroft’s study. She spoke in a forceful undertone, aware that Hannah might attempt to eavesdrop on the other side of the door. “So you see,” she finished, “you must notify someone at once—someone who isn’t involved with the Magisterium, in case any of the other sorcerers are loyal to the Chancellor. Anyone at the Collegium would do, or even the Queen.”
The physician had dutifully taken notes the entire time. “I see,” he said, adding one final flourish. “And how long have you believed the Chancellor to be responsible?”
“I don’t believe he is responsible. I know he is.” Elisabeth sat up straighter. “What are you writing?” Among the physician’s scribbled notes, she had made out the word “delusions.”
He snapped the notebook shut. “I know all of this must be very frightening for you, but try not to agitate yourself. Excitement will only worsen the inflammation.”
She stared. “The—what?”
“The inflammation of your brain, Miss Scrivener,” he explained patiently. “It is quite common among women who read novels.” Before Elisabeth could think of a reply to this baffling remark, he called Hannah back into the room, who looked pinched with worry. “Please tell the Chancellor that I prescribe a strict period of bed rest for the patient,” he said to her. “It is clear that this is a classic case of hysteria. Miss Scrivener should exert herself as little as possible. Once the swelling in her brain subsides, her mind may return to normal.”
“May return?” Hannah gasped.
“I regret to say that sometimes these cases are chronic, even incurable. I understand that she is a foundling, staying here as a ward of Chancellor Ashcroft? Allow me to write down a recommendation for Leadgate Hospital. I am closely acquainted with the principal physician. If Miss Scrivener fails to recover, the Chancellor need only send a letter—”
Elisabeth’s blood pounded hot with anger. She had listened for long enough. This physician was just like Warden Finch, just like Ashcroft:
a man who thought he could do whatever he liked to her because he happened to be in a greater position of power. But he was wrong.
When he stood, she gripped his arm with enough force to halt him in his tracks. He tried in vain to pull away, then gaped at her as though seeing her for the first time, his mouth opening and closing like a startled fish. She tugged him close. No match for her strength, he lost his balance and nearly toppled face-first onto the bed.
“Listen to me,” she said, in a low, fierce murmur too quiet for Hannah to hear. “I didn’t grow up in an ordinary library. I grew up in a Great Library. You may scoff at books, but you have never seen a real book in your entire life, and you should count yourself lucky, because you wouldn’t survive a moment alone with one.” She tightened her fingers until he gasped. “You must go to the Collegium at once. The Chancellor said that he’s only just begun. Whatever he is planning, more people will die. Do you understand? You must . . . you must . . .”
The physician had paled. “Miss Scrivener?” he prompted.
Elisabeth let go of him and pointed at the mirror. Or rather, at Mr. Hob’s reflection—for although the butler stood outside in the hallway, the mirror made it possible to see him around the corner, waiting. Only he was no longer a butler, or even a man.
“Look,” she whispered.
Mr. Hob’s suit was the sole feature that remained unchanged. But now it hung on a gaunt, slumped, inhuman frame. His complexion had turned a sickly shade of lavender, and his skin looked grotesquely melted, gobbets of flesh dangling from his cheeks and chin like drips of tallow. His ears were pointed on the ends; his purple hands were clawed. Worst of all were his eyes, unnaturally huge and round and pale, like saucers. They shone in the shadows of the hall, a pair of glazed moons gazing back at her.
Glancing uncertainly between Elisabeth and the physician, Hannah opened the door the rest of the way. Mr. Hob didn’t react. He stood silently, unblinkingly, with his horrible shining eyes, as everyone else stared at him.
“You see,” Elisabeth whispered. “He is a demon. Some kind of goblin, or an imp.”
There came a long pause. Then, the tension shattered. The physician cleared his throat and leaped away, skirting quickly toward the door, as if Elisabeth might lunge out of bed and attack him. As if she were the demon, not Mr. Hob.
“As I was saying,” he said to Hannah, “please give my recommendation to the Chancellor at the earliest opportunity.” He shoved a piece of paper into her hand. “This is obviously a very serious case. Leadgate has state-of-the-art facilities. . . .”
He didn’t appear the slightest bit distressed by Mr. Hob as the butler led him out of sight. His voice receded down the hallway, extolling the virtues of ice water baths for the “mentally disturbed.” Elisabeth sat stunned and shaking as his reaction sank in. None of them had been able to see Mr. Hob’s true form except for her.
The mirror framed her reflection, alone. Trembling beneath a thin nightgown, the blood drained from her face, Elisabeth had to admit that she looked every inch the girl the physician claimed her to be. And she was trapped in Ashcroft Manor more certainly than she had been imprisoned in the Great Library’s dungeon, at the mercy of her greatest enemy.
FOURTEEN
OVER THE NEXT few days, Chancellor Ashcroft treated Elisabeth with nothing but solicitous concern. She was confined to her room during the mornings and evenings, but for a brief time in the afternoons, Hannah dressed her and brought her down to the conservatory for some fresh air. There she rested under Hannah’s supervision in a cushioned wicker armchair, with a blanket over her legs, breathing in the humid, earthy sweetness of plants and flowers. A riot of blossoms and lacy ferns enveloped her, their exotic petals dripping with moisture. This would have formed the very image of paradise, had she not also been surrounded by demons.
Now that she had seen Mr. Hob’s real form, she saw demons everywhere. They scuttled to and fro on errands. They swept leaves from the flagstones, watered the pots, and pruned the flowers. Most were less imposing than Mr. Hob: smaller, their skin scaled instead of wattled. Some had sharp teeth, and others long, pointed ears. All of them were dressed incongruously in Ashcroft’s golden livery. Guests often strolled along the paths, but they never spared the demons a second glance. To them, the creatures appeared as nothing more than ordinary servants. And the demons likewise ignored the guests, going dutifully about their tasks.
It was not the demons themselves that frightened Elisabeth, but rather the question of how Ashcroft had gotten so many to obey him. They were clearly lesser demons, not highborn demons like Silas and Lorelei. What had he promised them? What offer could possibly be tempting enough that they were willing to don uniforms and serve him? The possibilities were too horrifying to imagine.
She waited breathlessly for a chance to speak to someone, anyone, from outside the manor, but none of the guests ventured close enough for her to warn them. They observed her from a distance, as if she were one of the Chancellor’s rare hothouse specimens: a carnivorous pitcher plant, or a poisonous oleander.
That afternoon, she forced herself not to flinch as a demon crept closer with a pair of shears and began trimming a palm behind her. Its skin was bright red in color, and its eyes were pitch black from edge to edge. Hannah hummed obliviously, tugging a needle through her embroidering hoop. The tune was lilting and odd—another one of Lorelei’s melodies.
Whispers caught Elisabeth’s attention. A group of girls her own age stood peering around a splashing indoor fountain, dressed in silk and lace. She could only imagine what she looked like to them, sitting stock-still, darting tense glances at a servant.
“What a pity,” one of them said. “It was so kind of Chancellor Ashcroft to take her in. I hear she is quite mad.”
“No!” exclaimed another, clutching her parasol.
“Oh, yes. Apparently she assaulted a physician. She nearly knocked him to the floor, according to Father. Her state of derangement results in beastly strength.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s enormous! Have you ever seen a girl so tall?”
The first said archly, “I might have once, in a traveling fair.”
“I heard from Lady Ingram,” yet another put in, “that she behaved strangely at the dinner the other night. She spoke little, and when she did, she was rude and appeared to have never been taught any manners. The warning signs were there from the start, said Lady Ingram.”
Anger boiled up inside Elisabeth, threatening to spill over. She didn’t hate easily, but she found in that moment that she hated Lady Ingram, hated these girls—how could they be so cruel and speak of manners in the very same breath?
A girl gasped. “Do you see how she’s glaring at us?”
“Quickly, run—”
Elisabeth’s fury drained away as they fled out of sight, their dresses’ ribbons flouncing through the palm fronds. This, she had just realized, was yet another element of Ashcroft’s plan.
Horribly, it made a great deal of sense. The more he displayed her in public, the more his guests could gossip about her, becoming increasingly convinced of her madness. Meanwhile, they saw for themselves that he was sparing no expense to keep her comfortable and well. Just as he placed an illusion on his servants, he wove a greater deception around himself, all without expending a single drop of magic. Even if Elisabeth did manage to speak to someone, they would only see her attempts to seek help as further evidence of her derangement.
She saw no way out of the trap he had built for her. Escape wasn’t an option. If she attempted to run, he would know that she suspected him, and the game would come to an end. She would lose any chance she had left to expose him, however small. Her only choice was to play along.
Somewhere outside the conservatory, a clock chimed the hour.
“Come along, dear,” Hannah said, rising from her chair. “It’s time for your daily visit with the Chancellor. What a kind man, to take such a personal interest in your recovery. I do hope you appreciate everything h
e’s doing for you.”
Elisabeth bit her tongue as she followed Hannah out of the conservatory. If only Hannah knew his true purpose for summoning her to his study every day. Dread closed in on her with every step she took into the manor’s shining, mirrored halls. By the time she reached the study, her insides were in knots. She struggled to control her expression as the door swung open, revealing Ashcroft wiping his hands on a cloth.
“Good afternoon, Miss Scrivener. Why don’t you come in?” Though he sounded as warm as ever, she glimpsed a spark of frustration dancing within his mismatched eyes. It was the only sign that these visits hadn’t yet yielded the information he desired. “Hannah, would you bring us tea?”
At his welcoming gesture, Elisabeth stepped inside and sat rigidly on the sofa. She forced her eyes not to stray to the grimoire on Ashcroft’s desk. He always covered it with his cloak before she entered, but she knew it was the same grimoire he’d been studying her first night in the manor. Its presence left a sour, musty taste on the back of her tongue. The way he was scrubbing at his hands suggested it was equally unpleasant to touch.
Ashcroft set the cloth aside and settled across from her in his favorite armchair. He looked so genuinely concerned that, despite everything, she could almost believe that some part of him cared about her. Then sunlight struck the depths of his ruby eye, and she remembered in a flash the way the Director’s red hair had spilled across the floor.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked, with a gentleness that made her skin crawl.
“Much better, thank you.” She swallowed, gathering her courage. “I think I might be ready to leave now.”
Ashcroft’s brow furrowed sympathetically. “Just a few more days, Miss Scrivener. The physician was most emphatic about the importance of bed rest.”
She looked down, trying not to let her terror show. Luckily, the physician hadn’t included what she’d told him in his notes. Ashcroft wouldn’t bother with these meetings if he had.
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