The rattkin looked like she wanted to argue the point, but she handed the tome over.
It was much heavier than it looked. And it looked heavy.
Viv expected the book to be ancient, some derelict grimoire of forbidden knowledge, but the black leather cover seemed almost new. No text graced the surface, although tiny embossing wreathed the edges. The patterns reminded her of the fine inscriptions on Satchel’s bones. The edges of the pages gleamed a gold-flecked red.
And she could smell it. In her hands, that blood-in-snow scent wafted up from the leather. An involuntary shiver scurried up her arms.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Satchel said Balthus stole something else, and this is definitely it.” She looked to the homunculus. “I’m right, aren’t I? Now that it’s in my hands, there’s no secret to protect, is there?”
“It is hers,” managed Satchel, although his voice remained weak.
“What happens if I open it?”
He tried to respond, jaw quivering, but again, he seemed incapable.
Viv ran a finger along the edge of the leather binding. It feltwet and slick, like a cave wall beaded with moisture from a dampness deep within.
“Fuck it,” she said, and flipped back the cover.
The page was black.
Not inked black. Not blank. Butdarknessitself. It absolutely devoured light. A tiny margin of creamy paper bordered the null space. Viv thought she felt the faint kiss of wind on her face, and the smell of lightning strikes.
“Fuck!” cried Fern. “You justopenedit? You’re all right, aren’t you? No… necromancer nonsense?”
“Oh, there’s necromancer nonsense all right.” Viv glanced at Satchel, who was wringing his bony hands in dismay.
She hovered an index finger over the blackness, but couldn’t bring herself to touch it. The air above the page wascold, an icy breath radiating from the paper.
Carefully, Viv peeled the page up by its thin margin and turned to the next.
Another black page. And then another. And another. Hundreds. At the bottom of each, an inked number, increasing in sequence, just like any other book.
“Well?” Fern’s voice pitched even higher in anxiety.
Viv shook her head. “I don’t know.” She carefully carried the book over to the side table and cleared the paper from the surface with a sweep of her forearm.
She gently laid the tome open upon the tabletop and stepped back.
“Gods,” breathed Fern, edging toward it.
Viv thought she could hear a sound emanating from the impossible night of that page, the chime of a glass sharplystruck. “Hang on,” she said. She snatched the pen from the inkwell, knocking off the excess ink.
Satchel continued to observe but didn’t try to stop them. Not yet, anyway. Viv took that as a positive sign.
She flipped the pen in her grip, feather down, and dipped it toward the page.
The feather disappeared into the blackness as though it were a pool of ink from which no light could reflect.
Fern covered her mouth with both paws, and Viv withdrew the pen.
It was whole, and unmarred.
“Well, that’s the first test done,” said Viv.
“Thefirsttest?” protested Fern. “What’s the second—”
Viv set aside the pen and opened and closed her right hand. Then, thinking better of it, she shook her head.
