Page 4 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

She pushed it from her mind. She could not give in to doubts and Mrs. Pettigrew. There simply was no time.

The mists were gaining ground. Not just gaining, but had already crossed her hastily erected moat of iron nails and prayer. There were paper saints living in the library, spirits tucked into niches, ghosts in the stacks and secret corners.

Apparently, they were all busy.

Now, there were only mists trying to swallow her like the maw of an invisible beast.

And there was fire. It bloomed around her like yellow roses, thorns of flames snapping at the mists. Steam filled the air, burning away the fog. There was a hiss, a vengeful, inhuman cry.

The snap of fire, the rush of her blood in her ears. An owl beating its wings at the window, talons scraping. Heat gathered under her skin. Her bones threatened to melt like silver in the forge.

Pippa saw the moment the mists faded away, but the struggle to rein in her magic continued. They were safe from the fog—but not from her.

The floorboard scorched under her knees. Her fingertips felt raw, burned. Her moth fluttered wildly, wings sparking like paper. Pippa curled her hands into fists, willing the fire to dwindle, to go back into the rowanwood-and-iron chest inside her ribcage where she bound and buried it in salt.

Lachlan finally moved, jerking up. He brushed against her.

Mists. A peach dipped in silver. Blackthorn trees. Silver owl wings.

It was just a moment, but it was enough.

Pippa wrestled back the flames as Mrs. Pettigrew, and her beleaguered assistant Argyle, charged around the corner. Professor Thorn sat up, barely noting the charred floor, the blood, his own naked self. His gaze collided with Pippa’s and locked her in place. His eyes were the color of wild heather.

And then he vanished.

Mrs. Pettigrew turned her not-insignificant glare onto Pippa, kneeling in the shards of broken crystal.

“Miss Cavendish, would you care to explain yourself?”