Page 14 of Spellwright

And neither was Fia. She reeled back, offended, and through clenched teeth said, “That was, perhaps, more honest than necessary.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You want the truth, but not too much of it. You’re looking to hire a spellwright, but you’ll settle”—he said this smugly, knowing the worth of his magic—“for a magician.”

“So you think I’ll give you the position? Just hand it over because you’re a Madbury?” Emboldened, her voice went high on his name. At his… at his conceit.

“I think you’ll give me the position because I mended your window. And the script? It means something to you, doesn’t it?” His eyes caught hers, searching.

He was completely infuriating, mostly because he was right about everything—and because he saw too much. The way her gaze had lingered on her mother’s painted words and how choked up she’d gotten. The way she’d pinked at his impressive display of magic.

It was galling, but she’d be a fool to turn him away. Not only because his name might draw more customers—and she needed all the business she could get—but also because that very name might keep the thieves from Thistledown away. She couldn’t imagine they would want to clash with a Madbury.

“All right, then,” she said impulsively, before tossing his words back at him. “Would you be available to start horrifying your father tomorrow?”

In answer, Penbrook Madbury swiped the advertisement from the window, turned his dark eyes on Fia, and with his voice lilting lazily, said, “I’m all yours.”

CHAPTER 6

Holding back the curtain, Fia peered out her bedroom window, looking down at Carrow Lane with a tickle of uncertainty. Overnight, all the trees lining the street had shed their russet leaves, and now the branches, twisted and bare, reached toward the sky like they’d been cursed.

She didn’t know where the thought had sprung from, but it stuck in her mind like a thorn. Her mother hadn’t read her fairy tales steeped in curses, as impractical as they were—the stories, not the curses themselves, which were (for better or worse) a reality, just not one she heard about every day.

Her father, though, had sometimes brought home those kinds of books when the Belladonna docked, the pages smelling of sea salt and damp, and Fia had devoured them: stories about the exiled magicians of the Silten Woods, who bewitched anyone foolish enough to trespass without an offering, or the three Belshorian sisters given three impossible tasks to rescue their beloveds from the bony clutches of Death.

“Call them fairy tales if you like, but the stories are real and true,” her father had always said, and Sable hadn’t contradicted him the way she had about so many other things, other than to say, “Except the ones with happy endings.”

But this was Trivoris, and it was autumn, and the leaves were bound to fall. It wasn’t a curse; it was nature.

Even so, it felt like a bad omen. The Book of Ribs was in the hands of someone who likely shouldn’t have it, for who knew what purpose, and perhaps that was where Fia should start her investigation—learning more about the grimoire itself.

But first she’d have to face Penbrook Madbury.

She bristled, thinking how he’d only taken the job in some impulsive act of rebellion. With his name and his magic, he could do anything, and yet he’d found his way to Sable Spells like it was a game to him. Not her life. Thank goodness he’d only be working with her temporarily.

Fia strode to her wardrobe, grabbing her warmest sweater—which also happened to be her rattiest, with its faded pink wool and moth holes at the collar—and an old blue skirt so out of fashion it brought an unexpected smile to her lips. It would probably horrify Penbrook Madbury, who would surely show up at the shop today in something stylishly tailored. After putting on a pair of striped stockings of gold and silver, Fia padded downstairs, cozy and comfortable and feeling very much like herself.

She went directly to the shop at the front of the building, surprised to see Penbrook already waiting outside, those ominous fallen leaves swirling around his ankles. He faced away from the window, absorbed in his thoughts, holding as still as he might if posing for a portrait. Because his family was certainly the sort who commissioned that kind of thing. Today he wore a charcoal-gray suit as dark as the sky, and Fia couldn’t help wondering if he felt like himself in that fancy and sure-to-be-uncomfortable attire.

Not that it mattered to her.

When she unlocked the door, the magician lifted his chin in greeting, and she wished him good morning. An awkward pause followed as his eyes caught on her adorably stockinged feet, which he likely found absurd. He grimaced at the stripes and probably was judging her for going shoeless too.

With an extra swish of her skirt, Fia turned before he could catch her satisfied smirk. Oh, she’d been entirely right about him. What a snoot.

“Shall I show you around the shop?” Might as well get right down to business.

“Is there more than this?” Penbrook glanced around as if there wouldn’t be much to her tour.

Ignoring his question, she took him behind the counter. “Everything you need for spellwork is here.” She pointed out the drawers full of paper and pens, ink and ribbons, empty journals that might one day become personal spellbooks. “But when I’m not here, you can take down what a customer wants, and I can design the spell that night if you’re having trouble with it.”

“I won’t have any trouble,” he said, his pride wounded by the mere suggestion. And then, perhaps catching the tinge of vulnerability hidden in the words, he waved his hand. “Shall we carry on?”

“Fine, well, here’s the ledger.” She tapped the overlarge book where she recorded each sale. It went back years and years, to the very first day Sable had opened the shop, before she’d ever known Bruin Ives, and sometimes Fia would turn the pages just to see her mother’s handwriting again. As it was, she’d left it open randomly to the start of last year.

January

Lily Piedmont

A spell to alleviate a broken heart