“But you said there were . . . many,” I said, my breath snagging in my throat. “What if she, what if . . .”
“You let me worry about Natalia,” the elder said, squeezing me again; warm but brisk, like a fellow in arms, her shimmery jade eyes turning implacable. “While you go and sweep this whole damned thing in my daughter’s name.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I was back outside the castle with Gareth and Rowan. I’d already handed the mantle over to Delilah, who, while struggling to contain her near rapture at this unexpected turn of events, had also been surprisingly gracious about the transfer of power.
“Thanks, Emmy,” she’d murmured as I slung it over her shoulders. “I know you’re not doing it for me, but . . . anyway. Still.”
“You’re welcome, Lilah,” I’d whispered back, giving her hair a little tug; remembering that once, when we were little and before we’d chosen such diverging paths, we’d actually been friends. “Like you said—you were the one who stayed. Maybe you should have had it all along. Either way, you’ve got it from here.”
Now she towered over us, her head blotting out the spangle of stars behind her; the ends of her long hair lifting with the wind, her warm brown eyes larger than life. The way she stood, the moon seemed to be sitting just above her brow, like an impromptu crown. A startling wash of pride engulfed me to see my exasperating cousin like this, just as beautiful and terrible as Tolkien’s elven queen during her brief tenure with the infamous ring.
Somehow, it suited her.
For a moment, I felt a bitter swell of envy that I’d never wear the mantle again myself, never feel that incomparable rush of old and massive magic pounding through my veins. But I had something more important to do, and I was at least a little glad that Delilah was finally getting to live the dream. She’d probably appreciate it more than I ever could, anyway, since I had technically never even wanted it.
More fool, me.
Then the Grimoire flared blue in front of her, and I felt another hollow gut punch of loss, because I couldn’t feel it; it wasn’t tugging at me anymore.
“Scions Thorn, Blackmoore, and Harlow,” she knelled, the air in my ears trembling with the force of her voice. Delilah’s timbre was deeper than mine, and in the Arbiter’s register it came across as a basso profundo that you could feel down to your bones. “The wreath awaits you, but it must be assembled. To gather up its pieces, you must find the remnants the founders left behind—Elias’s word, Caelia’s dream, Alastair’s heart, Margarita’s eye. And the soul that lies in the center of what they made together.”
Hey, silver linings: at least we seemed to be done with the shitty poetry.
As she finished speaking, banners of light streamed from the Grimoire and over to the three of us, winding around our bodies—just as they had done to transport Gareth, Rowan, and Talia to their respective orchard battlegrounds.
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting to be whisked away—but when I opened them again, I still stood exactly where I’d been; bookended by Gareth and Rowan, the ropes of light shimmering around me with pearly iridescence.
“Alastair’s heart,” Rowan was mumbling under his breath, musing to himself. “Could that be . . .”
He closed his eyes to complete the thought, and in the next moment he was gone. So, this was a portal spell, but one controllable by the bearer—which meant I was supposed to determine where I wanted it to take me, like a self-guided scavenger hunt.
“Caelia’s dream!” Gareth burst out, as something dawned on him, too. Then he vanished as well, leaving me to eat their collective dust.
Every competitive instinct inside me—and I had quite the collection of them, to be sure—roared to kicking and screaming life. This arrangement, in which I was the last one standing ignorant, was not going to fly.
“Caelia’s dream, Elias’s word, Alastair’s heart, Margarita’s eye,” I chanted to myself, palms slicking with impatience. I assumed the Grimoire didn’t mean the founders’ literal body parts; as far as I knew, no one was keeping Alastair’s heart or Margarita’s eyeballs preserved in a pickling jar—though with the Avramovs, who ever really knew for sure. But in any case, the dream and the word were abstract concepts . . .
And then, with a sudden bolt of inspiration, I knew exactly where to look first.
Tomes & Omens, I thought to myself, closing my eyes. Tomes & Omens. With a stomach-dropping lurch like falling in place, the world shifted around me—then I could smell dust and ink and dry, papery decay, a bell tinkling out warning of my arrival though there was no one else to hear it.