The longer she spoke, the more a weight lifted from her shoulders. Until now, she hadn’t realized how punishing it had been to keep all of those secrets—to be the only person who knew about Ashcroft, constantly aware that if something happened to her, the truth would vanish forever.
Nathaniel listened intently, never interrupting, his expression darkening the further she progressed. When she reached the part about the spell Ashcroft had used on her, a shadow fell across the room. At first she thought the sun had passed behind a cloud. Then she saw the emerald sparks dancing around Nathaniel’s fingers as the room plunged further and further into a midnight gloom.
She broke off. “What—?”
Nathaniel had been so focused on her that he hadn’t noticed his own reaction. He glanced around, and went pale. The darkness retreated.
“Sorry,” he forced out. “I didn’t . . .” He struggled to compose himself. Then he said evenly, “What the Chancellor did to you—that spell—you shouldn’t have been able to recover from it. And you shouldn’t have been able to see through his illusions, either, or resist his servant’s glamour. It sounds like you have some kind of resistance to demonic influence—which would explain quite a lot, actually, about everything that’s happened to you since the Book of Eyes.” He raked a hand through his hair, distracted. “But it’s strange. I’ve never heard of anyone . . . never mind. Go on. Why on earth are you smiling?”
Elisabeth wasn’t sure. The sun was shining through the window again. The silver streak in Nathaniel’s hair was sticking straight up, and he clearly hadn’t noticed. And he believed her. Finally. He believed every word. Looking down at her knees, she continued.
“So you see,” she finished at last, “I must go to the Collegium straightaway and tell them everything I’ve learned. I think Ashcroft will strike the Great Library of Fairwater next, then Harrows. He’s moving in a circle around the kingdom, sabotaging each Great Library in order. Perhaps he’s saving the Royal Library for last. But the attack on Harrows is special to him for some reason.”
Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. “The defenses at Harrows should be impenetrable. It’s more secure than the Royal Library.”
“His ancestor built the Great Libraries. He might know a secret way inside.” She bit her lip. “And there are two Class Ten grimoires in its vault. If he succeeds—”
Nathaniel straightened. “I see your point.”
“You don’t seem surprised by anything I’ve told you,” Elisabeth said tentatively. “You’ve known Ashcroft for a long time, but you still believe me.”
He looked out the window again, the angle concealing his face. “I have spent the past day thinking of every possible thing that might have happened to you, and every person who might conceivably be responsible for it. I’ve moved past the point of surprise. And besides,” he added quickly, bitterly, before she could comment, “I make a point of never underestimating what a sorcerer can do. No matter how good, or kind, or trustworthy they seem—I’ve seen what they’re capable of with my own eyes.”
The lines of his shoulder and back were tense. To him, this was obviously a personal matter. “You’re speaking about your father,” she said quietly, as all the comments people had made about Alistair began to come together.
Nathaniel stiffened. Silence reigned for a long moment. Then he said, in a clear attempt to change the subject, “You didn’t trust me before. What changed your mind?”
Elisabeth picked at the dressing gown’s hem. “I was afraid of you at first. Now I understand that you helped me. And I believe . . .”
He turned and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“I believe there is kindness in you,” she blurted out. “Even though you try to pretend otherwise.”
The eyebrow lifted higher. “So you’re hoping I might help you expose Ashcroft?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
He barked out a disbelieving laugh. It sounded almost pained, as though someone had struck him. “Tell me, do you have any evidence? A motive? Ashcroft is the most powerful man in the kingdom, and his reputation is as spotless as the Queen’s linens. Everyone adores him.”
“I know he’s studying the Codex Daemonicus. Whatever’s inside it will explain his plans.”
“Sorcerers have studied the Codex for centuries and found nothing of worth.” He shook his head. “You could bring your allegations to the Collegium, to the Queen herself, and no one would believe you. Ashcroft had you declared insane. He has a diagnosis from a physician and, by the sound of it, dozens of witnesses from high society.” Elisabeth’s hands twisted the dressing gown. Nathaniel went on relentlessly, “It would be your word, a disgraced apprentice librarian’s, against the opinions of the most respected people in Austermeer.”
“But if you came with me, and told them—”
“I have nothing to tell. I could swear to your honesty for days, but the fact remains that I witnessed none of what you’ve told me firsthand. Everyone would see me lavishing attention on you, and after that debacle with the press they’d just assume that I . . .” He ran a hand through his hair again, more roughly this time.
“That you what?”
He grimaced. “A word of advice, Scrivener. Whatever Ashcroft is doing, let it go. He’s finished with you—you’re safe now. I’ll find a way to straighten out the matter with Summershall and then you can return home to your innocent country life.”
“No.” Elisabeth thrust herself up from the end of the bed. “I won’t go back until I’ve stopped him.”
Nathaniel’s face hardened. “Sometimes people die,” he bit out, “and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
“I will save them.”
“You will join them,” he snapped.
Fury surged through Elisabeth. It swelled in her heart, crackled over her skin, fizzed up the roots of her hair. She advanced on Nathaniel until their noses almost touched. “That is better than doing nothing!” she shouted.
For a moment he made no reply. They stood glaring at each other, matched in height. His breath stirred against her face. When he finally spoke, he struggled to keep his voice level. “You’ve been attacked, violated, tormented, left on the streets to starve. The odds you face are impossible. If you continue down this path, you’ll die. Why won’t you just give up?”
She stared. Was that a thing people did—just gave up? When there was so much in the world to love, to fight for? “I cannot,” she said fiercely. “I never will.”
Nathaniel’s lips parted to deliver a retort that never came. Her gaze flicked to his mouth, and that was all it took for the air between them to change. Heat flushed her face at the realization of how close they were standing; Nathaniel’s eyes widened, his pupils dark.
He took an abrupt step back. Then he pivoted and seized the edge of the door. Recovering quickly, Elisabeth caught it before he could slam it shut between them.
“What did Silas mean, when he said you cared about me?” she challenged.
A fall of hair hid Nathaniel’s face from view, showing only the line of his jaw. “You of all people should know better than to make a habit of listening to demons.”
He was right. What would the Director think if she saw Elisabeth now, willingly accepting refuge in the house of a sorcerer and his demon? Her fingers loosened in shock. The door tugged from her grasp, but Nathaniel didn’t slam it, as she expected—it swung shut with a quiet click. As his footsteps faded, she slumped against the inside of the door and dug her knuckles against her eyes. She tried to rub the ghostly image of the Director from her mind.
It used to be so easy to tell right from wrong. Wardens followed a simple code: protect the kingdom from demonic influences, and never involve themselves in sorcery. But what was she supposed to do when the code turned against itself? Had she not accepted Silas’s help, she might have died, and any hope of unmasking Ashcroft would have been lost along with her. Surely it was her duty to
seek justice, no matter the cost.
Confusion roiled within her like a sickness. Perhaps having such thoughts meant she wasn’t fit to be a warden. Even so, she refused to turn back. She needed to find a copy of the Codex. She had to find out what Ashcroft was after. And there was no better place to start than in a sorcerer’s home.
EIGHTEEN
EMERALD LIGHT SPILLED through the crack beneath the door, illuminating the dust and prints on the floorboards. Outside in the hallway, Elisabeth shifted from foot to foot. She had spent hours exploring the manor. After poking her head into countless unused rooms, their furniture covered in sheets, she had encountered this one tucked away in a corner of the first floor. Nathaniel had been shut up inside it doing some sort of magic all day: occasionally she heard him move about or mutter an incantation. She had waited all afternoon, but he hadn’t once emerged. Her patience was beginning to fade.
A glance down the hall confirmed that the house was as empty as ever. Aside from Silas, who seemed to be out, she hadn’t encountered any servants. She gathered her courage and knocked.
“I thought you weren’t going to be back until supper,” Nathaniel said conversationally. “Well, hurry up and come in. I could use your opinion on . . .” He turned as the door swung open, his expression souring. “Scrivener.”
Elisabeth didn’t answer, too busy staring openmouthed at their surroundings. The door had opened not on a room, but on a forest. Nathaniel stood in the middle of a mossy clearing, the ground dappled by jade-colored shafts of light that speared through the colossal pines. Butterflies as large as dinner plates clustered on the trunks, fanning their iridescent turquoise wings, and liquid notes of birdsong trilled through the air. The forest seemed to go on forever, its depths cloaked in swirling mist that occasionally parted to reveal hints of dark, distant hillsides and splashing white streams.
Elisabeth’s spirits soared as she stepped through the doorway, passing from one world into another. She breathed in the scent of crushed moss and pine sap, and raised a hand to let the green light filter through her fingers.
Nathaniel watched her for a moment, silently. Then his mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Don’t get too excited. None of this is real. See? It’s just an illusion I’m working on for the Royal Ball.”
He waved a hand, and the scenery blurred like a runny watercolor painting turned over onto its side. She blinked, watching the ferns dissolve into wisps of green mist; the butterflies winked out of existence liked popped soap bubbles. Soon the last tree vanished, and instead of a forest, she stood inside the entrance to a study.
But this room was nothing like Ashcroft’s study—nothing like any room she had ever been in before. It was wondrous. There was hardly a path to step through without knocking something over. Papers tumbled from every surface, pinned down here and there by odd bronze and glass instruments. A jeweled globe glittered in one corner on a brass stand, and the articulated skeleton of a large bird hung on wires above Nathaniel’s head. The ceiling tunneled upward five stories, ending in a skylight that admitted bright shafts of sunshine. And on the shelves, winding around and around, reachable only by ladders . . .
Elisabeth lit up. “Grimoires,” she breathed, even more delighted than before.
Nathaniel’s expression grew odd. “You like this place?”
“Of course I do. It has books in it.”
He just stood there, not trying to stop her, so Elisabeth clambered up the nearest ladder. She had spotted a familiar title on the shelf, winking its gilt for attention. When she reached for it, it squirmed free of its neighbors and dropped eagerly into her hand.
“I knew you had to be here somewhere!” she said to the Lexicon. She hadn’t seen it since the ride into Brassbridge. “I can’t believe he stole you.”
The grimoire gave a guilty rustle. She looked over her shoulder at the marvelous, sparkling chaos of the study. From this vantage point she could see emerald flames dancing in the hearth, and overtop it a glass cauldron sending wisps of purple vapor up the chimney. There weren’t any skulls, or severed crow’s feet, or vials of blood. In fact, the study seemed . . . friendly. With a thoughtful frown, she turned back to the Lexicon. “I suppose you’re better off here than with Ashcroft,” she admitted.
“What do you want?” asked Nathaniel behind her. “I assume there’s a reason you’re inflicting yourself upon me.”
She tucked the Lexicon beneath her arm. “I’d like to ask a favor.”
He turned away and began rifling through the papers on his desk, appearing to accomplish nothing in particular aside from creating a bigger mess. “I thought I made myself clear this morning. I’m not going to help you get yourself killed.”
“I just want to borrow some books.”
“And this suspiciously sudden impulse has nothing whatsoever to do with Ashcroft?”
Elisabeth spotted some fragile glass instruments arranged on a table nearby. She climbed back down the ladder and drifted toward them. “What are these?” she inquired. “They look breakable.”
“Don’t touch those,” Nathaniel said hastily. “No—don’t touch that, either,” he added, as she changed course and headed for the jeweled globe instead. When she ignored him, he threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine! Have it your way, you absolute terror. You can borrow as many grimoires as you want, as long as you keep your hands off everything else. That’s the rule.”
She beamed. He stared at her for a moment, and then snapped his gaze back to his desk.
“What is it?”
“You need some new clothes,” he said, pretending to read one of the papers. She knew he was pretending, because the paper was upside down. “I’m going to run out of pajamas at this rate. I’ll set Silas to the task—he loves that sort of thing. Prepare to be fashionable, Scrivener, because he’ll accept nothing less.”
Elisabeth reddened. She had forgotten she was still wearing Nathaniel’s dressing gown. She tried to push away the memory of his dark eyes and parted lips, only inches away from her own. “The way you talk about Silas . . . you really trust him, don’t you?”
For some reason, Nathaniel laughed. “With my life.”
It took her a moment to grasp his answer’s double meaning, and when she did, her heart fell. It was easy to forget that he had bargained away his life in exchange for Silas’s service. How much of it? She couldn’t bring herself to ask.
She shook off her troubled thoughts and bent herself to the task ahead. As Nathaniel resumed his work, she climbed the study’s ladders, plucking out any grimoire that looked promising. The light shifted and deepened, slanting through the skylight at a steep angle. Hours passed, but Elisabeth barely took note. She was back where she belonged, surrounded by the whisperings and rustlings of pages; the sweet, musty smell of books. Occasionally she looked down to see what Nathaniel was up to, and found him examining conjured butterflies and flowers beneath the lenses of a queer-looking magnifying device. He never once looked at her in return. But every once in a while, when her back was turned, she could have sworn she felt his gaze settle upon her, as tentative as the brush of a butterfly’s wing.
Late in the afternoon, she staggered out of the study with such a prodigious stack of grimoires that she had to tilt her head to see around them. Climbing three flights of stairs to her bedroom didn’t seem wise. Instead, she hauled the books into a room she had discovered during her exploration: a tiny parlor tucked into a warm, sunny crevice of the manor, its plump armchairs arranged around a fireplace in which someone had left a bouquet of dried lavender, the flowers now brown and brittle with age. She set the grimoires down on the coffee table, sneezing in the cloud of dust that puffed from its surface.
A review of the Lexicon had led her to focus on Aldous Prendergast, the author of the Codex Daemonicus. The books she’d selected to start with were all Class One and Two grimoires with sections on sixteenth-century history. One of them looked especially promising: Lady Primrose’s Complete Handbook of Historical Personages, Ne
w and Revised Edition, which kept emitting delicate, ladylike scoffs at the dusty table, and refused to open for her until she went back and borrowed a pair of kidskin gloves from Nathaniel.
By nightfall, however, the grimoires had yielded disappointingly little information. She’d read that Prendergast had devoted his life to the study of demons and the Otherworld. He was obsessive about his work, even going so far as to claim that he had traveled to the Otherworld, which appeared to be the beginning of his falling out with Cornelius. The two were close friends before Prendergast wrote the Codex. Soon afterward, Cornelius had him declared mad and locked him away in a tower, where he died after lapsing into some sort of comatose state. It was not lost on Elisabeth that Ashcroft had attempted to get rid of her in much the same way. No wonder the volume’s psychic howls had raged with fury and betrayal.
But none of the grimoires contained what she really needed: a clue as to what sort of secret Prendergast might have hidden inside the Codex—or, barring that, where she could find a copy of it to study.
Frustrated, she set the last grimoire aside and looked out the windows. It was almost too dark to continue reading. A bluish gloom had descended over the parlor, and the traffic had grown thinner outside. Her thoughts churned away as a carriage rattled past, shiny with rain, bright yellow leaves pasted to its roof. Thus far, the attacks on the Great Libraries had occurred about two weeks apart. That meant she had barely over a week left to expose Ashcroft before he attacked the Great Library of Fairwater, and less than a month until he targeted Harrows. She had barely begun, and already she was running out of time.
“Miss Scrivener?” She jumped. Silas stood at the entrance to the room, holding a silver tray. “I have taken the liberty of bringing your supper, unless you would prefer to move to the dining room.”
Elisabeth hurried to clear a spot on the coffee table, ignoring Lady Primrose’s indignant huffs of protest. “This is fine. Thank you.” She watched Silas set the tray down. Earlier, she had ventured into the kitchen and seen no one. “Do you cook all the food here yourself?”
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