Page 61 of Spellwright

“I fear it is, but I didn’t realize it then. That I would make things immeasurably worse.”

He wasn’t like his father, who’d originated this scheme in the first place, all to see his son wed to increase the power of two already powerful families. Penbrook had meant to give himself and Andromeda better lives—ones they chose for themselves. Ones where they wouldn’t end up as unhappy as Fia’s own parents, bound together out of nothing but obligation. Not love.

“You’re… you’re good-hearted.”

Penbrook broke their gaze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” she whispered, letting the quiet settle around them for the rest of the journey.

Not much later, the carriage pulled through a set of tall gates and down the road at an angle, providing Fia with a glimpse of the Willows before the path straightened and carried on. Under the dusk sky the white-brick manor basked in a splendor of orange and gold—a scattering of leaves across the lawn, fairy lights glimmering in glass orbs strung along wire, the mirrored line of namesake willow trees weeping on each side of the stone staircase, their pendant branches dripping with yellow leaves. They might have been the only trees in Trivoris that hadn’t mysteriously shed their foliage.

Which seemed to be even more evidence that The Book of Ribs was here, in this place untouched by the ruin of curses.

For a moment Fia thought she glimpsed her mother winding through the boughs, that dark mane of hair, the pearl-white skin of her face beneath the moon, her velvet spellbook in hand. She pressed her nose closer to the glass, this impossible idea blooming—that her mother had been here all along. Not dead, just hiding.

“Look.” She whipped away from the window. “Do you see…”

Of course, it was only a figment of Fia’s imagination or some stranger slipping between the trees, perhaps to steal a kiss or to sway on a rope-and-wood swing, but Penbrook and Andromeda were too busy dozing to reassure her. Fia had become so preoccupied with the view beyond the window and thoughts of returning to the place where her mother had been struck down, she hadn’t noticed Penbrook slumping in his seat the same as Andromeda, lulled by the coach’s rocking.

Panicked, Fia leaned across the small aisle, nipping him on the back of his hand until he sputtered awake.

“Always pinching me,” he muttered, as if she’d grievously wounded him.

“Always waking you.” Fia turned to Andromeda, whose breaths were soft with slumber, and, more gently, shook her arm until the girl’s eyes fluttered open. “Time to wake up.”

“Oh!” Andromeda patted her hair, ensuring she hadn’t mussed it. “I wasn’t sleeping.” Penbrook snorted, which she pointedly ignored. “How much farther?”

“We’re here,” Fia said as the carriage rolled to a stop.

In a uniform of russet and sage, an attendant came to the door, opening it for them, then helping them down one by one. Andromeda, the last to disembark, made a show of it when her feet touched the ground. She paused to arrange her swirling skirts, so deeply blue they brought to mind a wind-tossed sky at midnight, then traced the fitted bodice that was a masterpiece of cerulean-filigreed embroidery. The attendant couldn’t help but stare.

After allowing Andromeda her moment, Fia handed over the invitation, and the girl tucked it discreetly away.

“On behalf of Mr. Smith, please allow me to welcome you to the Willows and the Bramble Ball!” By her telling smile, the attendant’s cheeks appeared flushed from merriment rather than the cold. “You’ll find the festivities in the rear garden, and they’re sure to marvelously delight you, if you’ll make your way through the illuminated hall.”

Fia wasn’t sure of the etiquette, but she dipped halfway into a curtsey, then started up the steps, Penbrook and Andromeda to either side of her. She had been to dances before, she and Grace stumbling arm in arm into those casual parties, but she’d never been to a ball quite like this one, the formality of it all—and the fact that it was hosted by a thief. She wondered if the trio she’d spied in the archives would be here too, watching her. And not liking that she’d come.

Nervously, she swallowed—looking up. The manor seemed so much larger up close, and even more strangely beautiful, gone a little wild with nature’s overgrowth—vines crawling over the windows, mushrooms sprouting in damp cracks—and neglect. She stumbled over a broken step.

Penbrook caught her gently by the arm. “Are you doing all right?” he whispered, as if he could see the wiggle of her nerves beneath her skin. But his eyes had gone soft, and she realized he was all the more likely asking because he knew it was no easy thing for her to come here, where her mother had died.

“Yes, thanks,” Fia said as they entered the house, determined to shield her heart against that tender hurt.

Beneath a procession of glittering chandeliers, they passed through a high-ceilinged hall that ran the length of the manor. Music and laughter drifted toward them from a set of wide-flung doors, beckoning guests toward the revelry beyond. Shadows shrouded the rooms branching off from the main corridor, disinviting trespass. Fia slowed, peering surreptitiously into the gloom, wondering if she’d be able to feel The Book of Ribs seething from its hiding spot.

“Come on.” Penbrook nudged her. “It’s too obvious if we slip away now. We’ve only just arrived.”

“Yes, and we should have some fun first.” Andromeda linked her arm through Fia’s, just as Grace would have done, striding purposefully ahead of Penbrook as they stepped out onto the terrace.

Before them the garden stretched like an autumn wonderland. Everything glowed gold beneath the moon, its light reflecting off all the many glass lanterns hanging from the trees, from the jewels found at every neck and wrist and finger, in the bright eyes of the jubilant guests. A hundred—perhaps two hundred—had gathered.

It struck a strange note with Fia, to see this once-abandoned manor so full. But then, what had Michael Lavender said? That Sebastian Smith was new to town and was looking to introduce himself. A grand ball was certainly a good way to do it—except why would a thief want to make his presence known?

Fia continued her survey. Noticed that no one else seemed at all concerned—though they were surely curious about their enigmatic neighbor. At the scattering of wrought iron tables, guests talked in small groups while nibbling on blackberry tartlets and raspberry cakes, lips stained red. Others gathered in quieter corners or walked the garden paths that wound beneath the bordering trees, stealing fizzy drinks from passing trays.

A soft breeze churned around Fia’s feet, sweeping her skirt to the side so that the golden lace glittered in the deepening night. Glad to have Penbrook and Andromeda close, she edged forward, toward the wheat-white stretch of grass that shaped the dance floor. Those huge willows, dripping with moonlit lanterns, encircled the space, and it glimmered like a secret.

Couples moved smoothly under the yellow branches, their feet swift on the grass, stirring leaves up around their ankles, while a string quartet silvered out a merry song from a stone patio. Skirts billowed as the dancers rotated round and round and round.