Page 22 of The Trick of It

“‘Merlin,’” Rhys repeated. “The wizard? Or the illusionist, you figure?”

“Has to be the wizard,” Seph said, blinking. “The illusionist was an old man even when we were children. He’d be ancient now, if he’s even still alive.”

“Oh, I remember,” Hattie said softly, flipping the card open to examine the inside, a soft smile on her face. “He performed at the Grand Pavilion, didn’t he? For many years. I agree, Rhys, he is likely too old to still be around.”

“I still hear tell of him giving shows on the Continent,” Rhys said defensively. “Same mask, same cloak. You never know.”

“A hlæw or a lǣw,” Hattie muttered, then she snapped her head up to look at both of them. “This is about Lewes. There is a disagreement about the word that originated the name.”

“Damn,” said Rhys. “It didn’t even take you a full sixty seconds.”

“This word,” she said, pointing to the first one without acknowledging him, “means ‘barrow’ or ‘hill.’ The other, lǣw, means … hm. ‘Gash’? A wound.”

“Probably the hill one, then,” Rhys said, scrunching up his eyes. “The Welsh word also means ‘hill.’ Why would it be a wound?”

Hattie shrugged. “Some think it’s the shape of the River Ouse, jagged through the hilltop. Lewes itself had the ash ligature in its original name: Læwe.”

“’Course it did,” said Rhys. “So it’s just more of the same riddle, put in there several times to make it cleverer?”

“Likely,” said Hattie. “Oh. That is funny. A truce be required. And look at the two of you, here now.”

“Is that all?” Rhys snapped, his thick brows arching.

“Well, it’s the wrong loath,” Hattie murmured, tilting her head as she stroked the ink. “Oh, unless that is a joke too. Aha, because of the loathing between you! Very clever!”

“Yes, hilarious,” Rhys said, dry as a stalk of grass.

Seph was still frowning down at the card. At the sketch, a quick impression in smudged charcoal. She looked over her shoulder at the one on the hearth again. The one that read, Brighton.

“Who sent that?” she asked, pointing to it. “It looks like this one.”

There was only silence. A long enough silence that Seph turned back around in confusion, only to find Rhys and Hattie exchanging very loud and meaningful glances.

“What?” she said again. “Who sent it?”

“We don’t … exactly know,” Rhys said, his expression tightening into a cringe. “There is … speculation …”

“Willa,” said Hattie, frowning. “We think Willa sent it.”

“Willa Selwyn?” Seph repeated, deeply confused. “The dead woman?”

“Or someone who wants us to think that, more likely,” Rhys said firmly, shooting Hattie a glare. “We all have our theories.”

“Hypotheses,” Hattie corrected mildly, making Rhys click his tongue.

“Well, all right, but …” She stood up, walking over to pick up the Brighton card and put it next to the Midnight one. She extended the pair toward the Starling wards with her brows high on her face. “Look at them.”

“Does it say something on the back?” Hattie asked quietly. “Like ‘Felicitations,’ perhaps?”

Rhys nodded, a queasy tint creeping up his jaw. “It says, Carpe Noctem.”

“‘Seize the night,’” Hattie echoed, her hand going to the swell of her pregnant belly. “That is … ominous.”

“No,” said Rhys. “It’s cruel. Whoever sent that knows us well enough to know the things Willa taught us. What she saw in us.”

“Did she say that to you?” Seph asked. “‘Carpe noctem’?”

Rhys grimaced. “Yes. I often couldn’t sleep. She bought me books and tinker projects and little things to paint or sketch to learn to warp perspective. She gave me things for the long night hours when sleep would not come. She said if the night didn’t take me, I should take it instead. And somebody knows that.”