Page 56 of The Mirror of Beasts

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.

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