The final step was a challenge: making it look as though the floor had never been touched. She gathered her focus, trying to guide the seams of stone and earth back together. She sensed George working on his half. It felt fiddly, like stitching with gloves on. She had to remind herself not to bully the ground into place, but to workwithit—persuading, coaxing, smoothing.
The green glow flickered, then faded. She lowered her hands, staring at the floor. Well ... her side wasn’t perfect. Perhaps if no one looked too closely, it might pass ... It added to the historical ambience, did it not?
“Nice work, Isla!” George praised.
Juliette hurried to her side, eyes sweeping the floor. If she noticed the imperfections, she was kind enough not to mention them, as they covered the floor with the rug. Her library was back to being intact. Mostly.
Chapter Thirty-Two
November 21st
Edmund stood just outside the prison cell, coat collar turned up, hands clasped behind his back. The small jail block beneath York Constabulary smelled unpleasantly of males—the kind of odor his mother used to complain about when she came to wake him and his brothers as teenagers. Men really did have a distinct stench, even if they missed only one opportunity to bathe.
A bare bulb swung overhead, throwing long, restless shadows across the tiled floor. The hum of the generator in the corner made the silence between words seem louder.
This wasn’t an ordinary holding cell. It was one of two places in York equipped to detain rogue Aetherians. Extra precautions had been built into the walls, and the man on the front desk was a seasoned policeman—and, like Edmund, a Ventus Summoner.
“I’ll ask you again,” Edmund said, his voice low and intimidating, carrying the kind of authority that usually made men sit up and listen. “What can you tell me about the book?”
The broad-shouldered Terra, Martin Wells—according to the university employee report Edmund had skimmed last night—clamped his jaw shut. He’d refused to speak for the last half hour. His eyes flicked toward Juliette, who stood at Edmund’s side.
Edmund held in a sigh. He could be as intimidating as he liked, but with ever-cheerful Juliette beside him, he doubted he was frightening anyone. Then again, he’d seen her strike down an Ignis who held her hostage, and the memory made his mouth twitch. Sunshine, yes—but sunshine that could burn.
Perhaps, he thought, it was time for the oldcarrot-and-stickroutine.
He stepped back, folding his arms. “Have it your way,” he said coolly. “We can stand here till the walls grow mold. Or ...” His gaze shifted to Juliette. “You can speak with Juliette here. She’s far more patient than I am.”
“Are you sure about that?” Juliette piped up. “These men treated my library most abominably.” She smiled sweetly as flames bloomed in her palms. “May I singe them? Just a little? It always loosens the tongue.”
Edmund had to fight back a laugh. He still remembered her indignation the night before—the way she’d looked ready to set the shelves alight herself after seeing how these two buffoons had handled her books. He’d clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her from blowing their cover, and the memory of her muffled fury still burned warmer in his palm than any Aetheric lightning.
He looked back at the men. Edmund had assumed he’d be the stick and Juliette the carrot, but somehow, they’d switched places.
The Aqua, Clive Ellery, paled as he stared at the flickering firelight.
Fine, Edmund thought dryly. He’d be the carrot; she could be the stick. How on earth had that happened? This woman turned everything upside-down—and Clive’s expression told him he genuinely believed Juliette might set him alight.
Edmund sighed. “Look, gentlemen, when you’ve enraged a librarian—especially an Ignis one—it’s generally wise to make amends.”
Martin Wells, the Terra, swallowed hard. “We don’t know much,” he said quickly. “We receive instructions through the book, we follow orders, and we get paid. That’s it.”
Juliette let her fire travel toward the men, dancing around them just close enough to make them sweat but not scorch them.
“He speaks the truth,” Juliette whispered to him.
“So, you’re telling me you have no idea who the leaders of the Ossa Arcana are.”
“We don’t,” Clive said. “They write in the book, so no one knows who they are.”
“Truth,” Juliette informed him.
“Do you know who killed Professor Kingsley?”
“No!” Clive all but shouted.
Juliette’s flames burnt brighter; they seemed to be reacting to her emotions. She hurriedly called them to retreat, her own face paling. He wasn’t sure if it was because of her discovery or because she had lost a little control over the flames.
“He lies.” She spoke quietly.
