“And who knows how the Book of Life will respond?” Ysabeau poked at the illustration of the tree with her finger. “What if it shrieks? Ghosts might be released. Or Diana might set off a rain of fire.”
After her experiences in London, Ysabeau had been doing some reading. She was now prepared to discuss a wide variety of topics, including spectral apparitions and the number of occult phenomena that had been observed in the British Isles over the past two years.
“You’re going to have to steal it,” Sarah said.
“I’m a tenured professor at Yale, Sarah! I can’t! My life as a scholar—”
“Is probably over,” Sarah said, finishing my sentence.
“Come now, Sarah,” Fernando chided. “That is a bit extreme, even for you. Surely there is a way for Diana to check out Ashmole 782 and return it at some future date.”
I tried to explain that you didn’t borrow books from the Bodleian, but to no avail. With Ysabeau and Sarah in charge of logistics and Fernando and Gallowglass in charge of security, I was relegated to a position where I could only advise, counsel, and warn. They were more high-handed than Matthew.
And so here I was at four o’clock in the morning, staring out the window and waiting for the sun to rise.
“What should I do?” I murmured, my forehead pressed against the cold, diamond-shaped panes.
As soon as I asked the question, my skin flared with awareness, as though I’d stuck a finger into an electrical socket. A shimmering figure dressed in white came from the forest, accompanied by a white deer. The otherworldly animal walked sedately at the woman’s side, unafraid of the huntress who held a bow and a quiver of arrows in her hand. The goddess.
She stopped and looked up at my window. “Why so sad, daughter?” her silvery voice whispered.
“Have you lost what you most desire?”
I had learned not to answer her questions. She smiled at my reluctance.
“Dare to join me under this full moon. Perhaps you will find it once more.” The goddess rested her fingers on the deer’s antlers and waited.
I slipped outside undetected. My feet crunched across the gravel paths of the knot gardens, then left dark impressions in the frost-touched grass. Soon, I stood in front of the goddess.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“To help you.” The goddess’s eyes were silver and black in the moonlight. “You will have to give something up if you want to possess the Book of Life—something precious to you.”
“I’ve given enough.” My voice trembled. “My parents, then my first child, then my aunt. Not even my life is my own anymore. It belongs to you.”
“And I do not abandon those who serve me.” The goddess withdrew an arrow from her quiver. It was long and silver, with owl-feather fletches. She offered it to me. “Take it.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not without knowing the price.”
“No one refuses me.” The goddess put the arrow shaft into her bow, aimed. It was then I noticed that her weapon lacked its pointed tip. Her hand drew back, the silver string pulled taut.
There was no time to react before the goddess released the shaft. It shot straight toward my breast. I felt a searing pain, a yank of the chain around my neck, and a tingling feeling of warmth between my left shoulder blade and my spine. The golden links that had held Philippe’s arrowhead slithered down my body and landed at my feet. I felt the fabric that covered my chest for the telltale wetness of blood, but there was nothing except a small hole to indicate where the shaft had passed through.
“You cannot outrun my arrow. No creature can. It is part of you now, waiting until you have need of it,” she said. “Even those born to strength should carry weapons.”