“First, I learned how to make tea,” he said finally, speaking more to himself than to her. “When humans wish to help, they are forever offering each other tea.”
Elisabeth’s chest squeezed. She pictured the two different Silases: the one in the pentagram, eyes dark and empty with hunger, and the other in the pavilion’s moonlight, a sword through his chest, his features etched with relief.
She said, “You love him.”
Silas turned away. He set the pot’s lid back in place.
“I didn’t understand before,” she went on quietly. Beneath the table, the napkin twisted in her hands. “Truthfully, I hadn’t thought it possible. It wasn’t until today, when I finally saw why—” Why you had taken twenty years of Nathaniel’s life. She didn’t finish.
Silas rose and set the bowl before her. “Enjoy your supper, Miss Scrivener,” he said. “I will attend to Master Thorn, and see if I can persuade him to take some broth.”
As he turned, his eyes caught on something near her face, and he paused. He reached toward her, his claws very close to her neck, and drew out a lock of her hair. Her heart skipped. Several of the strands shone silver against the chestnut tresses spilling over his hand. Silas’s mark. It wasn’t as noticeable as Nathaniel’s, but she would still have to hide it—perhaps cut it off in order to avoid suspicion.
“I had nearly forgotten,” Silas murmured, gazing at the silver as though mesmerized. “It is an extraordinary sign of trust for my master to have allowed you to hear my true name. You are the first person outside House Thorn to know it in centuries. Now, if you wish, you can summon me. But there is something else you must know. You also have the power to set me free.”
Her mouth had gone dry, despite the soup sending up fragrant tendrils of steam. “What do you mean?”
His eyes shifted to her face. In the firelight they looked more gold than yellow. “Bound in servitude, I exist as a pale imitation of my true self, the greater part of my strength locked away. You saw a glimpse of what I truly am inside the pentagram—only a glimpse. Were you to free me, I would be unleashed upon this realm as a scourge, a cataclysm beyond reckoning.”
A chill ran down Elisabeth’s spine. Was he asking her to free him? Surely not. But she could think of no other reason why he would tell her this.
“As a child, Master Thorn once proposed the idea,” Silas said, very softly. “He liked the thought of setting me free, of allowing us to be equals instead of master and servant. I told him not to. I give you the same warning now, though I don’t believe you require it. Do not free me, Miss Scrivener, no matter what comes for us, no matter how unspeakable things become, because I assure you that I am worse.”
He held her gaze a moment longer, then straightened and inclined his head in a bow. “Good night, miss,” he said, and left her sitting petrified by the fire.
TWENTY-NINE
THE NEXT MORNING, Silas brought a copy of the Brassbridge Inquirer inside from the stoop. A gargoyle had been gnawing on it, but it was still readable, and her pulse sped to a gallop as she smoothed it flat across the foot of Nathaniel’s bed, pressing the torn strips back into place.
Ashcroft’s name was everywhere. Her eyes skipped between the front page headlines, unable to decide where to settle first. There was the column on the left: DEADLY DUEL THROWS ROYAL BALL INTO CHAOS. And then on the right: MAGISTERIUM SCRAMBLES TO INSTATE NEW CHANCELLOR. But the bold text crowding the page’s center was by far the most exciting: OBERON ASHCROFT, CHANCELLOR OF MAGIC, IMPLICATED IN GREAT LIBRARY SABOTAGE.
She bent over it and began to read. “Due to his multiple attempts to silence Elisabeth Scrivener, a key witness in the Great Library investigation, Chancellor Ashcroft is believed to be connected to the recent string of attacks. He is wanted for attempted murder and the illegal summoning of lesser demons. The Magisterium has assembled a perimeter around his estate, where he is believed to be hiding, but as of yet have not been able to penetrate the wards. . . .”
She trailed off, remembering what Ashcroft had told her when she’d first arrived: his wards were powerful enough to repel an army. Perhaps the Magisterium hoped he would surrender, but Elisabeth couldn’t see