Page 102 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
Either way, I need more.
I frown at my father. “These books Desmond found that you guys used. Are they still in his library?”
Dad looks away from me, rocking back on his heels. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly?”
I’m thinking they’ve been destroyed, that they’re locked away or lost to us forever. That he ripped them to shreds when hefound out what Desmond had done—even though I can’t picture my father having that kind of emotional response to anything.Particularly if it involves destroying his beloved books.
He clears his throat. “The last time I set foot in Wilde House, I—uh—borroweda few of the books without Desmond’s knowledge,” he says, as if making a confession. And he’s not done. His gaze slides awayfrom mine. “AndperhapsI also magicked fake versions of the books into place, so it appeared they were still in the library. I was afraid he woulddo something drastic and destroy them, so Ihadto save them. History is meant to be known, not hidden.” He intones that the way he always has, my whole life, but then hecoughs. “And he never said anything, so I assume the fakes worked.”
I can only blink at my father. “Youstolehis books?”
Dad shrugs at that. “Just because Desmond decided he didn’t believe anymore didn’t mean I was going to let him destroy thepossibility that someday we might have answers. I knew the books would be safer with me. They’re in our library at home. I’vebeen through them backward and forward, but not in a long while.” He nods at me. “Things have changed now. Maybe somethingwill jump out at you if you go through them.”
“You have to magic them here.”
He shakes his head. “I have always been incredibly careful with these books. I’m not sure why Desmond turned so hardagainst this idea, or why it’s all been concealed from us. But I think it’s best if we don’t arouse any suspicions. Moving them next door from Wilde House was one thing. Moving them to the archives—a place you rightly want to give the public access to—well. I think we should proceed more carefully.”
Maybe he’s right. The archives don’t have these books or haven’t given them to me. So maybe there’s a reason they aren’t here.
“Let’s go.” I don’t wait for him to agree or disagree. I just reach out for his hand, and I take us over to my childhood home.Directly into the Pendell family library, which has always been my safe space.
Except today, my mother is here when we arrive. Which feels ominous.
Becausesheis the perpetrator of that necklace I was wearing that was infused with black magic.Sheis against me in more devious ways than I ever believed, including her vote to imprison Azrael.
I want to be furious, but it hurts. And keeps on hurting to stand here, looking at her and seeing the slight physical similaritieswhile she studies me with pursed-lip consternation.
“What are you two up to?” she asks.
“Research,” we reply in unison, like we always have.
This causes her to scowl deeper.
“Stanford, I’d like to speak to Georgina in private,” my mother says stiffly.
My father looks up at me, smiles a little sheepishly, then shuffles away. He has always beentherefor me, a soft place to land, but he never fought for me. It doesn’t fill me with the same kind of anger I feel toward mymother, though. I’m not even sureangeris the right word. He loved me when no one else would. Or did. And maybe I didn’t have parents who would fight for me, butI had a best friend who would. A best friend who, it turns out, is my half sister.
So there’s that.
“Georgina, I do not know what that display was the other day,” my mother says sternly. “Or what you think you’re doing, cavortingwithdragons, but this is unacceptable. Maybe your new, power-mad coven won’t tell you this, but the job of a Historian is to proceedwith caution. To advise withfacts. To carry oneself with aquietdignity.”
I’ve heard these same age-old lectures since I was small, and the offense given was the state of my appallingly red hair.I can recite them in my sleep. What I can’t believe is that she’s seriously standing here, doling it out again like nothinghas changed.
She has to know that I know everything. Desmond. The necklace.
“Speaking of unacceptable displays,” I say coolly. “What were you thinking, giving mewearableblack magic?”
She looks at me like I’ve spoken one of the few foreign languages she doesn’t speak. “I beg your pardon?”
And she actuallysoundsshocked, but how can I believe someone who was involved with black magic crystals?
“That necklace you gave me for my pubertatum. It had black magicinsideit.” I shake my head. “And go figure, it’s been working against me ever since.”
At the wordpubertatum, my mother stills. She stares at me, looking more... upended than guilty, but not unmoved. Not confused any longer.
After a moment, she shakes her head. “I didn’t.”
