Page 81 of Spellwright

Sable had shrugged. “The more of something you have, the more you want. And then, what won’t you do to get it?”

Like Arturo Lyons.

Fia went through a dozen more of his spells, each one self-serving at the hideous expense of another person, distractedly glancing up when Penbrook slothed himself onto the sofa.

He rolled onto his side, one hand tucked under his cheek, facing her with drowsy eyes. “Anything?”

She scooted back against the sofa so she could feel Penbrook’s breath each time he exhaled. A reassurance. “Maybe in the next section.”

Fia skimmed another spell.

“I don’t want to die,” he murmured, so softly, like a wish he’d meant to leave unspoken.

“Penbrook!” His words fell like a knife to her chest, and Fia whipped toward him, promises she shouldn’t make blooming, then wilting, on her tongue.

“Not yet, not now,” he whispered, his dark eyes searching hers—then slowly closing.

She wanted to hear the rest. All the things he’d bottled inside. All the things she might have glimpsed in that lingering look.

Instead, his breaths slowed with sleep, brushing gently against her cheek. She watched him another moment, telling herself he was okay for now, that Andromeda was too, sheltered cozily in her room at Hotel Hush, waiting out the cursed windstorm. Then Fia pressed on, determined to read the grimoire from cover to cover despite the nightmares she might suffer.

She wanted to be able to promise Penbrook something true.

But when her breath caught hours later, it wasn’t because she’d stumbled upon a wicked enchantment that might break the sleeping curse—it was an ordinary finding spell that had so thoroughly jarred her.

Far, far in the back of her mind, buried beneath her good sense, she’d held a small, hopeless hope. That The Book of Ribs might contain a spell that would help her too, leading her to her mother’s spellbook.

Fia knew better than to touch this forbidding magic, though, except for in extraordinary circumstances. Combating the deadly curse certainly qualified, but she couldn’t make the same claim for her own desires. Nothing terrible would happen if she didn’t find her mother’s book. She simply wanted it.

The grimoire’s pages quivered, perhaps sensing her internal debate and trying to taunt her toward the spell. The magic ached for release.

Another wisp of Penbrook’s breath brushed her skin, touching the back of her neck where her hair parted over her shoulders. A reminder of what was most important.

Decisively, she turned the page, poring over the remainder of the spells with the utmost focus. And disappointment. An hour later, she’d found nothing that might counter the curse.

Fia removed the glasses and scrubbed her hands over her eyes, consumed with an overwhelming sense of failure. And the longer she sat there—no more spells to consider, nothing else to hope for—the harder she found it to breathe. With considerable effort, she turned to Penbrook, who slept with such stillness he might have been a figure carved beautifully from marble.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she said miserably, but it was no easier to admit while he was sleeping than if he had been awake.

The Book of Ribs seemed to have some idea, though. She heard it fanning again, and she spun back round, rattled by the speed with which it tore through its pages. When at last it stopped, she found herself staring down at the very spell she’d lingered over. The finding spell.

“I won’t cast it,” she said, unsure if she was talking to the grimoire or herself. Or maybe Grace, who would have slammed closed the book to keep Fia from acting rashly and recklessly.

The grimoire fussed its objection with a rustle of pages, and even though she’d removed the glasses, she could just make out the words of the spell when, against her better judgment, she squinted very hard at them.

tomorrow finds what today hides

this want, want, wanting

that plucks at my heart like a crow at dead eyes

this need, need, needing

that scorches my cries

this wanting, this needing is seething

for tomorrow finds what today hides