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“That’s too bad,” she said, as though his absence would truly disappoint her.

By the boy’s pained expression, it was easy for Fia to see how Andromeda had come to be known as the Heartcrusher. She didn’t waste time feeling sorry for him, though. Right then, she was only thinking of herself.

“My dress,” Fia hissed at Penbrook as they swept through the doors of Thistledown, making haste lest the attendant come to his senses and call them back.

“It’s lovely.”

“Yes, very, but is it illusioned? It’s not going to disappear next, is it?”

He barked out a laugh, and even as she waited anxiously for his answer, she enjoyed the unforced sound.

Still, she shushed him, unable to shake what had always been ingrained in her—that she should be quiet here among the library’s sacred books. However, that rule seemed to have been thrown out the window for the night. Ahead, the guests all talked and laughed and sipped their champagne without tempering their volume, gathering in small gossiping groups or ringing around the pedestals set up for the occasion, upon which rested the grimoires up for silent auction.

With their rooks on their shoulders, the librarians hovered beside each display, recounting the history of the tomes while touting the significance of the spells within and the wrights who’d crafted them, no doubt hoping to catch the interest of the highest bidders.

“The gown isn’t an illusion that will sparkle away at midnight,” Penbrook assured Fia.

“Are you certain?” Andromeda took up his wrist, giving it an accusatory shake.

The death-cursed ring he always illusioned away now gleamed on his finger.

He snatched back his hand. “How good of you to point out my failures.”

“Come on,” Fia whispered. “We need to get to the archives.”

They had no time to spare, not with Penbrook’s magic waning—a sure sign the curse was finally and horribly winding down.

CHAPTER 33

Fia glanced toward the western staircase and the librarian stationed at its base, ready to chaperone worthy (deep-pocketed) guests past the rope and up to the fourth floor to catch a rare glimpse of the archives.

“I don’t think that’s where the dancing is.” Andromeda looked longingly past the grimoires on display to the open space that had been cleared of its research tables, where couples turned round and round, spinning across the marble floors to no music at all. Around them the tall shelves of books loomed, rows and rows of them, and paired dancers twirled their way down the aisles, getting lost in the stacks and seeking the quietest corners.

“Later,” Penbrook said, but the future wasn’t anything he could promise.

The thought of tomorrow dawning without either of them in it left a sickly, hollowed-out ache right in Fia’s center. But she refused to let it come to that. Whether or not they approved, she could cast her spell again and give them another one of her days.

As they waded through the crowd, she pressed a hand to her stomach, keeping an eye out for Sebastian Smith. And for Grace and Montrose too, but really, it was probably better if she stayed away from her friends. Just in case everything went wrong.

Anyway, it was nearly impossible to recognize anyone. As intended, everyone had dressed for the masque in much the same way, clad in outfits the faded white of parchment or the deepest black of ink. Guests hid themselves behind outrageously beautiful masks, sporting all manner of gems—rhinestone and opal, jet and onyx. Other masks flaunted long, whispery feathers or delicate flowers, baby’s breath and white violets, dark velvet pansies and black hellebore.

Fia’s glittery type of mask wasn’t so uncommon, and it might have provided her some anonymity, but no one had a dress quite like hers, made from paper and ink itself, spells at her fingertips. Her skirts rustled as she roamed the room, like the turning of pages.

And she turned a few heads too.

Avoiding those curious gazes, she walked on, and a bright flash of gold caught her eye. It was one of the only spots of color in the room. As the crowd shifted, she realized it was the songbird, Rin, looking rather nervous in the company of so many rooks, even from the safety of his perch in Gwendolyn Blair’s nest of braided hair. And beside her, looking just as polished in person as he did in the photo beside his column, stood Dominik Honestly—white feathers adorning his lashes instead of a mask. Clearly, he wanted to be seen.

Smothering a panicked gasp, Fia pivoted, dragging Penbrook and Andromeda with her, because they couldn’t risk being spotted. Especially by these two, who were both very good at rooting out secrets and whispering rumors.

The trio drew nearer the staircase and the librarian with a rook on his shoulder, who surveyed the crowd with shrewd eyes. Fia recognized the bird—Waxworth—a moment before she recognized the narrow-faced young man and his slick of pale hair.

“Jasper Tremaine,” she growled under her breath, not realizing she’d stopped walking until Penbrook nudged her forward.

“Will he give us trouble?”

“Without question.” Even knowing luck spells did little more than ensure you picked an apple without bruises or avoided stepping into a puddle on the street, Fia touched that clover on her wrist.

“I’ll handle him,” Penbrook said.