Page 25 of The Mirror of Beasts

I thought Emrys might offer up one of his usual quips, but he only looked down at where his hand gripped the back of the stool beside him. There was something in his expression, the way his eyes hadn’t quite focused, that sent an unwelcome ripple of dread through my thoughts.

“You don’t understand,” Olwen began.

“Oh, but I do,” the Bonecutter said. “I understand far more than what you might wish to believe. About the unpredictable nature of magic. About the monsters that have appeared on this very isle. Whispers reach me from far and wide, from the living and the dead.”

The Bonecutter slid off her stool. Not being tall myself, I was still shocked to see her diminutive stature. “That is why Nashbury Lark sought advice about his cursed child all those years ago, and why, out of great curiosity, I have allowed you to stay. I suspect you’re about to show me something quite interesting.”

Cursed child. With everything that had happened, I’d been able to push Nash’s words from my mind. His warning. The Bonecutter couldn’t possibly have guessed he’d only just spoken of it, but … the knowing quirk of her brow was unsettling, to say the least.

“We need your help,” I told her. “Though this may be beyond even your skill set.”

The Bonecutter smirked. Holding up her left hand, she snapped her fingers, and all the lights—natural and false—extinguished around us. The locks on the windows and doors turned with a harsh snap.

“The night’s come, Bran,” she told the bartender. “Be off with you.”

He nodded, ducking to retrieve something from under the register—a stone tablet with a sigil for warding off unwelcome guests. Neve leaned over my shoulder to get a better look at it. She caught my eye as the bartender hung it around the doorknob.

“There are far more protections you cannot see,” the Bonecutter said, retrieving her large ledger and pressing it to her chest. “Nothing and no one shall enter the pub unless I will it. You’ll only need to worry about your own foolish impulses and sticky fingers.”

She was looking at me as she said the last part. My temper prickled. “I’m not Nash.”

“You’ll answer for his sins all the same.”

She gave a dismissive wave to the bartender. The air heated around us, then ruptured with a torrent of spiraling light. The transformation couldn’t have taken more than a scant sliver of a moment, but every detail of it seared into my mind with stunning clarity—the way the man’s bones shrank, how his form twisted and knotted around itself until nothing human remained and a large raven soared out from the sparks of magic still drifting in the air.

The bird tore through the haze of smoke in the fireplace, then up through the chimney. I reached out a hand, catching a long black feather in my palm.

Pooka. A shapeshifter. One of the last races of the Fair Folk in our mortal world. They often allied themselves to sorceresses and became companions to the women, offering their services in exchange for protection.

Which meant …

There had been countless rumors about who the Bonecutter was over the years. Most assumed it was a sorceress, or one of the Cunningfolk—you needed a certain magical skill set and vast stores of obscure knowledge to run this kind of outfit, after all. I’d always believed that if she was a sorceress, the Council of Sistren would have put a stop to one of their own profiting off the bones of their dead.

Not so, apparently.

Neve made a pained noise, all but shaking with the effort to keep her questions to herself.

“If you’ll be so good as to join me in my workshop,” the Bonecutter said. She ran a small pale hand along the carved spikes of the wooden dragon’s spine as she rounded the bar. There must have been a small stool tucked behind the counter, because she was suddenly able to reach up and press a hand to one of the dragon’s glass eyes. I took a step forward, squinting—and there it was, hidden in the painted lines of the iris. A small sigil.

Just behind her, the weathered planks of the floor pried free, stacking themselves neatly on either side of the staircase hidden below.

“The kitten is not allowed to join us,” the Bonecutter said, starting down the steps. “In fact, I’d rid yourselves of it immediately.”

“Not much of an animal person, are you?” I asked.

“Not unless they have rare fangs, claws, or skin to offer,” the Bonecutter said.

Griflet hissed.

Olwen hesitated, but I gave her a nod. Gently, she set the basket down and pulled the protesting kitten out of the blanket.

“Now, don’t be like this,” Olwen told him, giving his head a gentle stroke. She removed her jacket and set the kitten down on it, so it had a soft surface to lie on. With one last irate yowl, Griflet extracted his teeth from her oversized sweater and curled up in a sullen circle on the makeshift bed.

“Come along, then, and watch your head for webs—I leave the spiders to catch any unwanted pests,” the Bonecutter said, continuing down the steps into the darkness below. “Though, sadly, you lot are far too big to be snared.”

No one moved.

“Fine,” I grumbled, taking the basket. I went first, carefully descending each narrow step. True to her word, an alarmingly thick layer of pale webbing covered the slanted roof of the enclosed staircase. Here and there, delicate wisps had fallen, drifting down into our path.

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