pulse beating at the base of his skull. Something cold touched his back, and he realized that Maker was taking the measurements. The plastic coating of the tape was smooth across his shoulder blades.
The cold contact stopped and Xan listened as the alchemist shuffled away. He cautiously turned his head. “Are you done?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Maker replied. “Don’t stand there half-naked. You’ll catch your death in here.” He continued to mumble under this breath, but Xan could make out enough of it to understand the basics—something about “young people today” and “hopeless.”
Xan bit his lip to keep from smiling, but at least he felt a little better. He was immensely relieved to be able to cover up again as he gratefully pulled his clothes back on. If Maker could really help him—if this wasn’t all some sort of elaborate plan against him, considering his faery heritage and the group the old man was a member of—he would be willing to keep his mouth shut for as long as it took. Maker had warned him that there would be consequences, but he hadn’t exactly gone into specifics. Not yet. Xan had told him they could discuss the small print later; he’d only wanted to move forward as quickly as possible, before anything could happen to get in the way.
Xan sat quietly and watched the old alchemist’s gnarled fingers dance across metal that shone with pure iron. He thought about costs, and whether the price could be too high. How much was he willing to go through in order to fly again—to regain his birthright?
How much pain could one man take? As he asked himself that question, Xan was no longer afraid. He knew all about pain.
Eleven
Donna sat at Quentin’s desk, glad to have some time alone and relieved that she had an excuse for avoiding her aunt. They’d met Aunt Paige in the hallway while walking to the study, and Donna sent up a silent thanks that she would not have to be in the same room with her. Part of her knew she should at least try to be the better person and give her aunt another chance. At the very least, couldn’t she be civil? But she couldn’t help feeling resentment. She just wanted to shout at the woman who’d let her down so badly, and maybe use some of Robert’s cool fighting techniques to throw her aunt around. Just a little.
Oh, and Aunt Paige had arrived at the Frost Estate alone: still no Maker. Donna had overheard her aunt tell the others that Maker was acting very strangely, saying that he couldn’t leave a delicate experiment unattended and would call a cab when he could.
There was no moving the man when he refused to oblige. Even though Maker was supposedly part of the Order, and therefore answerable to its hierarchy, he was also … not. Donna had never been able to figure this out before, but from what Quentin had told her about Maker’s role in assigning the various artifacts to the races, the old alchemist apparently had powers she’d never dreamed of. This made his absence at their war council seem especially strange. The world was potentially ending—at the very least, Ironbridge could actually be destroyed in a matter of hours—and Maker was too busy with his latest pet project to come help out?
Unless whatever he was doing was helping. Perhaps he would save the day with an amazing contraption that repelled demons.
Donna took a deep breath and decided there was no more putting off the inevitable. She’d come in here to do a job—converse with the dead about the mysterious fifth ingredient—and that’s what needed to be done. She felt vaguely comforted by the smell of old books and incense, and the eloquent silence of the familiar house. Closing the impenetrable text that Quentin had given her to look through, Communicating with the Otherworld, she placed it to one side. The only useful thing she’d gotten out of it was a page that contained a short list entitled “Instructions on How to Talk to Spirits.” That had seemed clear enough, and it was at least written in a recognizable language—English—rather than Latin. Donna had never done well with Latin.
The scrying mirror was cold and heavy where it rested on her lap. About the size of both her hands cupped together, it was made of highly polished obsidian—a kind of volcanic glass. All she could do was stare at the surface and try to reach out