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A sorcerer's library is a strange and wonderful place. They are revered with the sanctity of churches but are about as clean and ordered as a bacchanalian orgy.
Augustus was an exception to the rule because he never stayed there long enough to make a mess, and it was the only room in the Vance estate that was regularly maintained by the family he'd hired to look after the property. Judith kept everything running, and he only had to pay her.
They lived on the bottom floors of the manor. The other two levels had been covered in sheets, or in the case of the east wing, boarded up and left to rot.
Augustus hadn't been home in a while. As he touched the golden sigils and stepped through the door, he knew why. He couldn't stay as long as he wanted because he felt the dreaded responsibility to fix Melbourne's magic.
Now that he knew a part of him was tied up in it, being unable to leave Melbourne for longer than a few hours made more sense.
The Old Library had also always reminded him too much of Emmaline, who had spent countless hours in there with him. Because the pain of the fire had been lanced by Mara, he breathed a sigh of relief as he looked around at the massive fireplace and the twisting shelves of books that reached the top of the twenty-foot ceiling.
By the time Augustus had gathered a pile of promising books and returned to Melbourne, the sun had gone down, and there was a flaming arrow stuck in the wall of his study. Augustus let out a long, pained sigh as he read the single line of ogham that was scorched into the rowan wood shaft.
"Fucking Druids," he muttered before pulling it out of the wall, disabling the fire spell on it, and tossing it back out of the window it had shattered on its way in.
Augustus was distracted, so he didn't notice or care as the arrow buried itself into the ground and spouted into a rowan sapling.
Nine
"It is easierto trust the kindness of a hungry wolf than it is to trust kindness from a sorcerer, for it is in the wolf's nature to go for the throat in its need for meat, where a sorcerer's actions are rarely so honest." — Sayings of the Blessed Crow.
Mara was dying; she was sure of it. Ana-Maria Corvo had been cursed for loving alcohol too much and had died of a hangover that had lasted a year.
Mara was positive that curse had somehow found her, even though Ana-Maria had died at least two hundred years ago and on the other side of the world.
She didn't think she had drunk enough to deserve this pain splitting her skull apart. She felt strangely emptied out like she did if she served more than five petitioners in a day.
"It serves you right, getting drunk with that lout," Athanasius said primly. He was sitting on Augustus's vacated chair and rubbing his scent all over it to drown out the male interloper's aftershave.
"I didn't get drunk with him. We just ended up being drunk together," she groaned. She picked up Augustus's neglected glass of water and downed it. "When did he leave?"
"About four hours ago. He was just about beaming with good health as opposed to you. You look like an animated corpse."
"That doesn't seem right at all." She boiled a jug of water and made a blend that usually cured a hangover. Her eyes rested on the candle that was still burning by the feet of the saint.
"He lit it before he left. He was very excited about something. He did say to tell you thank you and that he wants to see you soon. I really wish you'd take the threat of him more seriously, Mara."
"Augustus is hardly a threat. And yes, I know sorcerers are bad news. I'll fight about it with you when I don't have a mariachi band in my head."
"You should check your mother's trunk for information on why saints and sorcerers shouldn't mix," Athanasius said before spraying the seat and stalking away.
Mara forced herself to swallow a mouthful of the hangover cure, winced, and went back to her bed.Her mother's trunk. She was too hungover to even contemplate tackling that particular task.
Like the statue of Saint Anea, her mother's trunk had been a fixture in their travels after leaving the family.
After Sophia's death, Mara had placed it under her mother's bed and had never gone through it.
As Mara dozed, her mind raced through the events of the past weeks, which melded together in a nightmarish kaleidoscope until they settled on the moment she'd placed her lips over Augustus's.
Mara's scattered mind cringed that she'd done it at all. It had been stolen, not given, and she knew he'd be horrified if he found out. She couldn't be sure, but as she reflected on the kiss, she felt the odd pressure of the strange miracle again.
Just your drunken mind imagining things, she reassured herself. Mara swore then and there that she was never drinking whiskey sours again.
* * *
"Mara, wake up. Someone is here," Athanasius said, paws poking at her face.
"What are you talking about? We aren't even open," Mara complained. She opened her eyes and noticed that the room was already dark with shadows. She'd slept the whole day. She swung her feet over the bed and pulled on a robe over her crumpled pajamas.
