Page 43 of The Mirror of Beasts

“That would be difficult, seeing as he’s been dead for two hundred years,” the Bonecutter said.

Viviane’s vessel appeared first from behind the bar, carefully balanced on the wooden pedestal. My heart sped at the sight of it—and stopped dead in my chest as the pedestal tilted and the vessel slid toward its edge.

The world blurred around me, slowing. I felt like I was moving through water, lunging for it. Too far—I was too far.

But Caitriona was there, with all her finely honed reflexes. The skull hovered an inch above the floor, balancing on the tips of her fingers. The rest of us stared, eyes bulging.

“Well.” The Bonecutter gave her the once-over. “I suppose I should thank you for that.”

But she didn’t.

“Allow me,” Caitriona said coolly.

“Set it down here,” the Bonecutter said, gesturing to the closest table.

She placed the pedestal there and stepped back, allowing Caitriona to carefully, carefully, set the vessel down at the center of it.

Reassembled, the skull looked more silver than bone.

This isn’t going to work, my mind taunted. Pessimism rose in me like a drowning tide, and after the night we’d had, I wasn’t sure I could keep my head afloat much longer.

“Here,” the Bonecutter said, pulling a small votive candle from the pocket of her dress. Today’s choice featured a full skirt, this time made of black silk. It only enhanced the feeling that a haunted Victorian doll was staring back at me.

Caitriona’s fingers lingered at the curve of the skull a moment before she took the small candle.

Once Caitriona had placed it inside the vessel, Olwen lit the wick with magic. Both drew in a sharp breath as the sigils on the vessel illuminated on the walls around us.

“So far so good,” Emrys said, still seated at the bar.

Olwen shared one last look with Caitriona. She stroked the curved edge of the pedestal, closing her eyes with a soft hum, starting the echoing spell the way she had in Avalon.

The pedestal creaked, wobbling slightly as its top piece revolved in slow circles. Glowing sigils passed over Neve, the walls, the Bonecutter, until, finally, it began to spin fast enough that the mysterious language of spellwork turned to rivers of warm, streaking light.

The hair rose on my arms as Olwen’s humming turned deeper, raspier. The haunting melody pulled at me, as much a lament as a prayer. Soon the edges of each sound became distinct, turning to words with no true origin or meaning. It was as if Olwen herself were the vessel, conducting the sound up through the ages.

Or from a far-off world.

My heart turned to stone in my chest. I glanced to the Bonecutter, searching for some sort of reaction, but her face was impassive.

The vessel had been created using death magic and a cauldron born of Annwn. Yet Olwen was using Goddess-born magic. It was strange to see the two magics work in tandem, but then again, the druids had once practiced the magic of the Goddess. With vessels, they’d found a way to align the two powers, and that collision—the meeting of death and living memory—was as terrible as it was beautiful.

Olwen opened her eyes, her face etched with an aching hope.

“How do we ask to see the missing memory if we don’t know what the memory is of?” I frowned. “There are only a few reasons Lord Death would go to such trouble to take the skull fragment, right?”

“And fewer reasons still why he wouldn’t want to crush the bone outright,” Caitriona said. “I assume he would have if it had specified how to destroy him. It must be something he believed he’d need to reference again.”

“You guys are thinking about this way too hard,” Neve said. Leaning down so the vessel was at eye level, she asked, “Will you show us the most important memory of Lord Death you hold?”

The light continued to stream around us, the pedestal’s little squeaks the only reply she received.

Nothing. I leaned a hip against the table and sighed. Olwen’s lip turned white as she bit it. Caitriona only scoffed, shaking her head.

“Are you sure you repaired it correctly?” Emrys asked the Bonecutter. Rather bravely, given the way she glared at him.

“Oh, my work was perfection, as always,” the Bonecutter said. “You, however, have asked the wrong question. Your phrasing is too subjective—a spell can’t make that determination. You need to be more precise.”

“What memory or memories were you missing until now?” I suggested.

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