My father moved to answer it, but I clamped a hand on his arm. “No,” I said, feeling a sudden spike of adrenaline that sharpened my vision. “Let them in. I want to hear this.”
Father threw the bolt. The door swung open to reveal Council Member Aldric Pembroke and Beatrice Holt standing on the stoop, flanked by two town guards who looked like they’d rather be wrestling bears. Pembroke, a man whose mustache possessed more volume than his courage, took one look at me and flinched so violently he nearly knocked Beatrice into the umbrella stand.
“Gods above,” he squeaked, raising a handkerchief to his face.
I suppose I was a sight. Blood-smeared apron, bruised eyes, shaking hands, and a wyrmling clinging to my chest like one overgrown, scaly brooch. I probably looked less like a healer and more like a necromancer caught midway through a ritual.
“Councilman,” I said. “To what do I owe the honor? Here for a checkup?”
“Lady Stormgarde,” Beatrice Holt said. She was refusing to look me in the eye, focusing intently on a jar of pickled newt eyes on the shelf behind me. “We are here on official business.”
Pembroke held out a rolled parchment, but he wouldn’t step over the threshold. He extended his arm fully, leaning forward while keeping his feet planted safely outside.
“Read it,” I challenged.
Pembroke cleared his throat, the sound distinctively high-pitched. “Given the... recent disturbances... and the alarming reports regarding the stability of the magical atmosphere surrounding...” He faltered, glancing at the wyrmling, which let out a hiss. Pembroke squeaked again. “The Council hereby issues a Motion of Cease and Desist.”
“A what?” Maren stepped forward, planting her hands on her hips.
“A formal request,” Beatrice cut in, her face pale. “We strongly suggest you cease all Arcane clinical practice immediately. Until the source of the... contagion... is identified.”
“Contagion?” I laughed. “You thinkI’mthe contagion?”
“It’s for the town’s safety, Miss Emberlin,” Beatrice said, risking a glance at me. Her gaze snagged on the blood drying on my upper lip, and she recoiled, taking a swift step backward. “You are... unwell. And the magic around you is... wrong. People are frightened.”
They were terrified. I could smell it on them. These were people that had known me since I was a little girl. It should have broken my heart.
“You ‘strongly suggest’ I stop?” I stepped forward. Pembroke scrambled back, tripping over the guard. “Or what? You’ll arrestme? You’ll drag me out?” I raised my chin, ignoring the throb of my headache. I let the gold flare in my eyes, just a little.
“If I stop,” I said, my voice dropping, “then there is no one left to hold the line. But if you want to quarantine me, by all means. Mark the door. Paint a red x.”
“Lysa,” Father warned softly.
“But know this, Pembroke. If I’m the monster,” I tapped the parchment in his hand, “then you’re the ones trapped in the cage with me.”
Pembroke shove the paper at my father and fled, muttering about protocols. Beatrice held her ground for a second longer, eyeing the wyrmling.
“It really is for the best,” she said, half to herself, before turning and hurrying after him.
The door clicked shut.
“Well,” Maren said into the silence, picking up a cloth to wipe a speck of spittle from the counter. “I think that went quite well. It was fast and you didn’t even bite them.”
“We’re going to the bookshop,” I said, petting Kirion’s head as he settled against my heartbeat. “If I’m already a public danger, I might as well commit some light trespassing.”
The Rainmint Bookshop was closed and dark at this hour, since it was well towards midnight by now. Maren picked the lock with a hairpin and a muttered curse that would have made a sailor blush. The mechanism clicked, a sharp sound in the night, and she eased the door open just enough for us to slip through.
“Maren, you have some questionable talents,” I said.
“Quiet,” she answered. “If Whisk hears us, he’ll raise the alarm. Or scorch our eyebrows off.”
The interior was a labyrinth of shadows. Floor-to-ceiling shelves loomed over, stuffed with volumes that hummed with faint, ambient light. High above, on top of a precarious stack of encyclopedias near the ceiling, a rhythmic puff of smoke signaled the book-dragon’s location. He was asleep, thank the Gods.
We crept toward the back section—Local History & Arcane Geography.
“I still don’t understand why the Stormgardes didn’t destroy these records,” Maren said, her fingers trailing over the spines of books titledHydrology of the Silver RiverandMineral Compositions of the Northern Peaks. “If I were Fenrik, I’d have burned everything that reminded me of the Collapse.”
“Fenrik hoards knowledge,” I murmured, my eyes scanning the titles. “He thinks if he studies the disaster long enough, he can retroactively fix it.”
