“What’s this?” Chandon gestured to an oil painting, small enough to tuck under an arm. It showed a man in a black suit, standing by the head of a black horse. The horse’s head was small, his eye wild. Beyond them lay a green carpet of grass, and at its end, a stone house.
Nowhere was there a signature or a name that would indicate what the house was, so Camille took the painting off the wall. “Maybe there’s something written on the back?”
Before she’d even turned it over, she felt its creeping magic. A deed had been sewn to the back of the canvas, though the stitches did not show on the front. And below it, under a dense cocoon of red thread, lay an iron key. There was something repulsive about it, like a sleeping insect.
“Quite a ferocious warding, isn’t it?”
“Is that what feels so sickening?”
“How would you get the key out?” She was loath to even to touch it.
“Silver scissors.” He yawned. “Let’s check on Delouvet.”
“But, Chandon, don’t you see? This is the kind of magic that repulses me.”
“That’s like saying you don’t like a particular cane, because the person who owns it hits you with it. Magic is but a tool, as my tutor always said!” Then he grew serious, and said, “You know that feeling of being watched you have in this house?”
She nodded.
“Mon amie, it’s nothing but magic!”
“Séguin’s dark magic,” she insisted. “The magic of his ancestors—”
Chandon shook his head. “You’re the magician that matters now. If you let it, the house will warn you. Even take care of you. But you mustn’t turn away from it.”
“But how? I don’t … feel at ease with magic, not the way you do.”
“That’s just the kind of person I am. A simple boy with simple dreams.” He smiled so that his dimple showed. “In all seriousness, the magic matches the magician. Only you can find the way to be at home with yours.”
Before she could demand Chandon explain, Blaise slowly came down the iron stairs, a few books clutched to his chest. “There’s not much here that has anything to do with the blur, I’m afraid.” He was gripping the railing so hard his knuckles were white.
Hurriedly, Camille pulled out a chair for him. “Do sit, Blaise!”
He waved her off. “It will pass. Unfortunately so much of what these books are is arcane ramblings about alchemy by magicians who had too much time on their hands. There’s very little that is practical.”
“Another dead end,” Chandon said, irritated.
Blaise was looking up at the rows of books in the gallery, many of which were still twitching and glowing with whatever magic he’d used to read them. He was exhausted, but his eyes were full of awe.
“How do you know so much about magical books, Blaise?”
“I grew up alone,” he said quietly. “They were my best companions. My only ones, really. People—have always been difficult. Books are much easier.”
Her heart twisted at the thought of him alone with his books. “Is that why you have your bookshop?”
“The first books of magic I ever read belonged to a kind parish priest, who took pity on a lonely and misunderstood boy. Les Mots Volants is my feeble attempt to reconstruct his astounding library.”
“But you’re doing it in secret.”
He gave an infinitesimal shrug. “We magicians have been in danger for a long time. I don’t believe magicians are blameless for the cruelty they inflicted on the powerless. But if we are to change ourselves, we have to preserve the records of magic both good and ill. It’s important to remember what really happened.”
Chandon wandered over to the window and opened the shutter.
“I never read any books of magic in our house,” Camille said, “though I remember my mother had one: green and stamped with silver. Though it could be bound in any color, couldn’t it?”
“Not that one. It is always bound like that.”
“You know it?” she said eagerly. “Do you have a copy?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Only a moment ago she’d had the feeling of something big rising to the surface, something that might help her understand what was happening to her. And now it had frustratingly sunk beneath the surface once more.
“Will you let me know if you come across anything about it?”
“It’s called The Silver Leaf,” Chandon said from the window.
“You know about this book, too?”
“It’s a primer most magicians study as part of their education,” Blaise explained—somewhat sadly, she thought.