could make a fortune enchanting the plaster and bricks in the city to stop them from crumbling.
The key felt warm as my hand closed around it. I drew it from my pocket, slipped the end of the stem and the bit into the lock, and turned. The mechanism inside the lock activated quickly and without complaint.
I grasped the heavy ring and pulled the door open. Beyond, there was a dark corridor with a veined marble floor. I could see no more than a yard ahead of me in the gloom.
“Let me show you the way,” Fernando said, taking my arm.
After the gloom of the corridor, I was temporarily blinded when we reached the dim light of the cloister. When my eyes focused, I saw rounded archways that were supported by graceful double columns. In the center of the space was a marble wellhead—a reminder that the cloister had been constructed long before modern conveniences like electricity and running water. In the days when travel was difficult and dangerous, the Congregation had met for months on end, living on the island until their business was finished.
The low murmur of conversation stopped. I pulled the hooded cloak around me, hoping to hide whatever markings of power might be visible on my skin. The thick folds also masked the tote bag slung over my shoulder. Quickly I surveyed the crowd. Satu stood alone. She avoided my eyes, but I was aware of her discomfort at seeing me again. More than that, the witch felt . . . wrong somehow, and my stomach flipped in a minor version of the revulsion I felt when another witch lied to me. Satu was wearing a disguising spell, but it did no good. I knew what she was hiding.
The other creatures present huddled into groups according to species. Agatha Wilson was standing with her two fellow daemons. Domenico and Gerbert were together, exchanging surprised looks. The Congregation’s remaining two witches were both women. One was stern-looking, with a tight braided bun woven from brown hair threaded with gray. She wore the ugliest dress I had ever seen, accented by an ornate choker. A small portrait miniature adorned the center of the gold-and-enameled necklace—an ancestor, no doubt. The other witch was pleasantly round-faced, with pink cheeks and white hair. Her skin was remarkably unlined, which made it impossible to determine her age. Something about this witch tugged at me, too, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. The flesh on my arms prickled, warning me that the Book of Life held an answer to my unspoken questions, but I couldn’t take the time to decipher it now.
“I am pleased to see that the de Clermonts have bowed to the Congregation’s request to see this witch.” Gerbert appeared before me. I had not seen him since La Pierre. “We meet again, Diana Bishop.”
“Gerbert,” I met his gaze unflinchingly, though it made my flesh shrink. His lips curled.
“I see you are the same proud creature you were before.” Gerbert turned to Gallowglass. “To see such a noble lineage as the de Clermonts brought to confusion and ruin by a girl!”
“They used to say something similar about Granny,” Gallowglass shot back. “If we can survive Ysabeau we can survive this ‘girl.’”
“You may think differently once you learn the extent of the witch’s offenses,” Gerbert replied.
“Where is Baldwin?” Domenico joined us, a scowl on his face.
Gears whirred and clanged overhead.
“Saved by the bell,” Gallowglass said. “Stand aside, Domenico.”
“A change of de Clermont representative at this late hour, and without notification, is most irregular, Gallowglass,” Gerbert said.
“What are you waiting for, Gallowglass? Unlock the door,” Domenico commanded.
“It’s not me who holds the key,” Gallowglass said, his voice soft. “Come, Auntie. You have a meeting to attend.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have the key?” Gerbert asked, his voice so sharp the sound cut through the enchanted carillon playing overhead. “You are the only de Clermont present.”
“Not so. Baldwin recognized Diana Bishop as a blood-sworn daughter of Philippe de Clermont weeks ago.” Gallowglass gave Gerbert a mocking smile.
Across the cloister, one of the witches gasped and whispered to her neighbor.
“That’s impossible,” Domenico said. “Philippe de Clermont has been dead for more than half a century. How—”
“Diana Bishop is a timewalker.” Gerbert looked at me in loathing. Across the courtyard the white haired witch’s dimples grew deeper. “I should have guessed. This is all part of some vast enchantment she has been working. I warned you that this witch must be stopped. Now we