Chapter 13

Rivenoak Manor was as impossibly grand as I remembered it, made more so by the dusting of snow and the shimmering lights upon its towering facade.

The palatial home had been an exercise in delusions of grandeur by some Elizabethan courtier who'd had no way of knowing his descendants would be brokers of stolen relics, not power.

We weren't Rivenoak's only visitors that evening. The lit torches lining its long drive and the parade of sleek cars heading toward the house had been our first sign of trouble. It only got worse from there.

Douglas firs had been hauled in to decorate the entryway. Their sweet smell filled my chest as I took in a deep breath. The glow of the party fluttered like golden wings against the house's many windows. Entering its light was like crossing into an Otherland—as tempting as it was forbidden.

My attention narrowed onto the man in a white tuxedo collecting invitations at the base of the marble stairs, at the very center of the circular drive. The arriving guests were kitted out in formal wear, glittering with jewels and warmed by dead animal skins. A black-tie affair.

I glared at Emrys through the velvet curtain of night, shifting so the boxwood hedge was no longer poking my cheek. "Did you know about this? "

"Yeah, of course," he whispered back. "I always try to show up when I'm most likely to be caught."

"Should we … come back?" Neve ventured, daring to peek over the bushes we'd ducked behind. Having been able to use the hedgerow along the drive to shield ourselves from the view of passing headlights, we'd finally reached the end of it.

"Can we just go around to the back of the house?" Caitriona asked.

Emrys considered the idea for a moment. "No, the only way to access the library is from a door inside, or by climbing through that window there—" He nodded to the third-to-last one on the house's face. "We have a better chance with the window. We just need to wait for the last guest to arrive—"

Neve let out a soft, pitchy hum, her eyes fixed on one of the decorative trees on the left side of the door. Within seconds, it went up like kindling.

As the man in the white tuxedo and several security guards turned their backs to rush toward the fire, Neve seized the initiative and leapt ungracefully over the hedge, leaving the rest of us to rush after her.

"—or a distraction works too," Emrys whispered, pained.

By the time we heard the hiss of the fire extinguisher, the five of us had managed to crawl into the narrow space between the wall and the wild thicket of rosebushes—though not without a cost.

"Why did it have to be roses?" Olwen whispered, carefully removing thorns from her hands and jacket sleeves. My own neck looked like I'd been in a losing fight with the library cats.

"Ooh," Neve whispered, sliding a hand under one of the bushes to pluck something from the ground. "Herald of winter!"

Emrys whirled around the best he could in the cramped space. "Really?"

Neve held the small yellow-bodied mushroom out for him to see. I snapped my fingers, drawing their attention back to me. "Fungi later. Focus."

A hint of "Greensleeves" drifted through the windows above us, played lavishly by a string quartet. When I turned back to face front, I saw that I'd lost both Caitriona and Olwen, too. They'd stuck their heads up just enough to see through the lustrous glass, to the world of the massive stone hall beyond it, and the sparkling contours of the candlelit party swirling inside.

Several revelers blocked our view, their raucous laughter animated by the light, fizzy delirium of champagne. Their glasses clinked carelessly together as they toasted themselves.

I knew from Nash's journal that the west wing of the grand country home was reserved for Wyrm and his family, the east for the members of his guild, but Cabell and I had been made to wait outside like street dogs, blocked by the pig-faced butler from even glimpsing the foyer. As sweeping and immaculate as the exterior of the house was, it was an appetizer to the feast awaiting our eyes inside.

I drew in a breath as the partygoers drifted apart and the soaring height of the hall revealed itself.

It was impossible to take it all in at once. The hoarfrost clinging to the glass gave everything a dreamy, unreal quality. Guests danced around the frothy towers of champagne glasses, tucked safely beneath the ostentatious stonework bracing the hall like a rib cage. A giant Yule log burned in the hearth, the flames gorging themselves on the last of the ribbons and dried berries tied to it.

"All of this for one family?" Olwen whispered.

I understood her horrified amazement. The tower of Avalon had been enormous, but served a purpose as the heart of the isle and had housed dozens of families by the end. Here, the size of the house was only meant to make the rest of us feel inferior.

Here and there, I saw faces I recognized, from my own guild and the London one—more intriguing were the collectors, the black market traders, and the auctioneers who served as the connective tissue between what a Hollower found and their payday.

I caught a glimpse of lanterns and fur-draped seats, but once my gaze landed on the feast, I couldn't tear it away. A long serving table nearly the length of the hall was laden with immense platters of fruits and cheeses, festive cookies, and bright sweets. My stomach gave a pitiful moan at the regiment of roasted turkeys being carved by the chef. She offered each fresh cut to the line of guests, who carried their heavy plates over to one of the smaller round tables that dotted the space.

Most guests, however, had forgone the food and were gathered around a well-lit case at the center of the hall.

As in my own guild's library, the London guild had chosen to display the relics submitted for membership. A dozen display cases lined either side of the hall, interspersed with windows and full suits of armor. My lip curled in annoyance as I recognized Pridwen, King Arthur's shield, in one; the girdle of Brynhildr in another; and what was rumored to be Merlin's druid spoon in a third. All, however, paled in comparison to the hooded cloak.

It had been carefully displayed on a faceless mannequin, swept out to reveal the woven image of a stag in a flowering forest. The fabric looked unbelievably delicate—as finely woven as gossamer. Certain threads glimmered silver and gold in the light, like winks of magic.

"Arthur's mantle?" Emrys whispered. He met my look of disbelief with one of his own. "They found it? Wyrm found it?"

"Why would one of Arthur's old cloaks be worth finding?" Olwen asked. "Unless—you mean the one Morgan gave him?"

"The very same." I sighed. "It renders the wearer invisible. Allegedly."

"I guess we know what the party's for," Emrys said. "And here I was thinking it was just a night of festive fun, when it's actually an expensive excuse to show off his latest find."

"Ugh," I muttered, almost too disgusted to keep looking. "Botheration. I hate that he's the one who found it."

"I thought you didn't care about the bigger relics?" Neve said pointedly.

"I don't," I answered, fighting the urge to punch a fist into the ground like a child. "But I don't want him to have it either. He's awful, and not just by my standards. The first time I met him, he told me to look him up in a few years and he'd show me a good time. I was seven. And believe me, he only got worse from there."

It wasn't worth going into more detail when that appeared to have sufficiently repulsed everyone. I tried not to notice the way a shadow seemed to cross Emrys's face, or how his hands clawed at the near-frozen soil.

Stop it, I thought. To myself. To him. Once we had the mirror and I was sure Emrys hadn't found a way to swipe it out from under us like he had the ring, I'd never have to see his face again.

"So what you're saying is, you would trap him in a mirror if given the means to do so," Neve said after a moment. She held up her hands at my expression. "Just making a point."

The crowd parted around the glass case, and the man himself appeared.

Edward Wyrm pushed through the guests like a cannonball, throwing his arms out as he regaled them with some highly exaggerated tale of how he'd found it. The din of the party music was too loud to make out much. His white tuxedo shirt strained over his barrel chest, but the manner with which he carried himself was immaculate, as if centuries of noble breeding and besieged nannies had gone into the making of this moment.

His face was even rounder and redder now, and the once-red ring of hair around his head had faded and thinned like a shedding rug. The deep scar across the bridge of his nose, however, was exactly as I remembered it. As he turned toward the fire, a silver pin on his lapel flashed.

As I watched the party whirl by, shining and carefree, a strange melancholy crept up on me. I wondered if this was how the Lady of Shalott had felt, forced to watch the world passing by through glass.

"Come on," Emrys said from the front of the group. "And try not to brush against the wall—there are a few curse sigils carved up near the roof to protect the house from intruders. "

We scurried along the edge of the house like mice, until Emrys stopped beneath the window he'd pointed out before. It was higher and smaller than the others along the hall. I looked back over my shoulder, but the arrivals seemed to be winding down, and much of the staff had gone back inside.

The small pouch on Emrys's belt had been hidden by his jacket until he unclasped it and dug around for the crystals he needed. Arranging the amethyst, quartz, and tourmaline in a pattern I'd seen Cabell use hundreds of times, he sat back, resting his hands on his knees. Neve leaned over his shoulder, trying to get a better view of what he was doing.

"When they're in the right grid formation, the crystals work to absorb some of the magic and deflect most of it away," he whispered to her.

"Yeah," she said, "I have eyes."

Cabell was the only known Expeller in hundreds of years. Unlike the rest of us, he was able to use his own innate magic to break the curses in sorceress vaults. Though the work took enough out of him that he often relied on crystals as well.

Hang on, Cab, I thought. As soon as we had the mirror, we'd finally be able to confront Lord Death directly, and end this.

Protective magic hugged the white stone wall so tightly, it was all but invisible, even with the One Vision. It was only when it flowed up and away from the crystal grid on the ground that I saw its iridescence.

I didn't bother to hide my smug smile. Some sorceress had probably charged Wyrm an arm and a leg for this so-so cursework. If anyone deserved to have his finds hollowed from his possession, it was him.

With one last look toward the entrance, Emrys turned his gaze to me. "You can pick a lock, right?"

"You can't?"

His expression turned exasperated. "Are you going to hoist me up there? "

I was tempted to hoist him directly into the middle of the rosebushes—though, knowing him, he'd probably have liked it.

"Olwen and I can help with that," Neve whispered. "We can just manipulate the air to lift us, right?"

She turned to look at the priestess for confirmation, but Olwen's attention was on the long driveway, the darkness between the torches. She fiddled with her braided bracelet.

"Olwen?" I said, touching her arm. "Can you use a spell to get us up to the window?"

"Yes, but …" She trailed off. "Are we certain about this? Should we not wait and try another night, when there are fewer eyes upon us?"

"We don't have time," Caitriona said. "The winter solstice is nine days away."

Olwen drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. "You're right. Here, Neve, I think if we focus on creating an upward wind …"

Olwen began the quiet song, letting it rise from within her chest like an exhale, as if to demonstrate to the magic what she was asking. Caitriona stayed on her knees, staring down at where her hands were pressed to the earth, as Neve's voice joined Olwen's.

Their songs seemed to dance with one another, harmonizing in a way that might have been arresting, had the air not suddenly vaulted me up toward the window like a springboard.

My rib had been feeling better, but the dull pain stabbed me again as I gasped. The others watched from below, Caitriona and Emrys moving into position beneath me, as if worried I'd drop as quickly as I'd risen.

"A warning would have been nice!" I whispered down to them. It felt like riding a strong sea current; all you could do was surrender and accept the bobbing rhythm of the air. Leaning forward, I could just make out the tops of bookshelves on the other side of the dusty window.

An old window in England generally meant an old lock, and I could tell this one hadn't been upgraded since it was first installed. My smirk returned. There'd barely be any picking involved. Wyrm really had been relying on the curse wards to protect him.

"Idiot," I muttered.

Leaning forward to make sure the library was unoccupied, I pressed my hands flat against the windowpane, shaking it within its frame. For once, luck was on my side. The sash lock dislodged itself on the third try.

The window was as long as it was narrow, swinging in and up. At its terrible creak of protest, I froze, waiting for someone to come running.

When no one did, I turned and gave the others a thumbs-up. Caitriona and Olwen stared blankly, but Olwen lifted her thumb back, clearly having no idea what it meant.

Somehow I managed to go horizontal and drag myself through the window frame. The air released its grip on me, and my body dropped heavily onto the top of the bookshelves, breaking off a chunk of the delicate floral molding.

I winced, holding my sore rib as I carefully climbed down.

One by one, the others entered behind me.

I crept along a section of Immortalities and books of lore. All four walls were lined with bookshelves, and a few rows had been placed at the center of the room.

Their library was smaller than I'd imagined—about half the size of our own, with only a single worktable in front of the cold hearth. A display of old, rusted swords hung above the floral stonework of the mantel.

At first glance, it all seemed typical of what you'd expect from a guild library: its walnut shelving and green velvet cushions, displays of relics proudly stolen. But the London guild was older than mine by hundreds of years, and had twice our numbers. Unless they'd sold the majority of their books and Immortalities, or their members kept them at their own homes, their collection was looking a bit thin.

Suspicion bit at me. This library felt more like a museum than a working space .

They had a number of relics on display in the hall—maybe they kept the bulk of their collection there as well, and set up tables where the light was better and they had more room to breathe?

I brushed a hand along the shelf beside me, frowning as it came away coated with dust.

"Great Mother," Olwen breathed out behind me, studying the statue of the Venus de Milo—the real one. Some gutless reptile in their guild had swapped it with a fake when the Louvre's treasures were removed for their protection during the Second World War, and even after Nash—no doubt inspired by jealousy and not chivalry—reported it, no one came looking for it.

Caitriona bent over a large case displaying one of the earliest known maps of Great Britain. I leaned over it too, unable to resist committing it to memory. The muted carousing of the party on the other side of the wall was a constant reminder of how close we were to being caught.

"What are we looking for, Trust Fund?" I asked Emrys, voice hushed.

"A copy of Tennyson's Idylls of the King with an emerald-green spine," Emrys said, still negotiating with the stubborn window to shut it. Neve, betrayed by her own kindness, climbed back up the shelves to help him.

Which was, of course, the moment the library's door opened.