a wrinkle in the carpet.
“Careful, now. You’ve taken quite the fall. Hannah”—the door opened—“could you return Miss Scrivener to her room? She seems to have had an accident.”
“Oh, Miss Scrivener!” Hannah exclaimed.
A flurry of conversation followed, most of which Elisabeth did not hear, her head pounding numbly with horror. Ashcroft had never intended for the fiends to kill her. He had expected her and Nathaniel to fight them off, and for the event to reach the papers. He had engineered the entire thing so that he would have an excuse to call off the Magisterium’s questioning and bring Elisabeth here, to his manor, as his guest.
As his prisoner.
“Yes,” Ashcroft was saying, “she entered the study and simply collapsed—I’ve no idea what she was doing wandering around the manor. . . .”
“Oh, sir, I’m so terribly sorry! I’m afraid that must be my fault! I looked for her everywhere—”
“Please don’t blame yourself,” Ashcroft said kindly. “I will call for a physician first thing in the morning. Rest assured that Miss Scrivener will receive nothing but the finest care.”
• • •
The next day, Elisabeth sat staring at the silver molding on the bedroom’s wall as the physician’s stethoscope pressed against her chest. She had spent the last twenty minutes breathing in and out according to his instructions, allowing him to peer into her mouth, eyes, and ears, and sitting still as he probed her neck and underarms, muttering indistinctly about glands.
While she waited, she clung grimly to hope. Ashcroft didn’t know that she had overheard everything last night. All she needed was a moment alone with the physician, and she could explain the situation and get help. But Hannah, who had fussed over her all morning, refused to leave her side. She sat on the plush white love seat beside the bed, wringing her hands. Mr. Hob stood near the door, waiting to show the physician back downstairs.
Elisabeth couldn’t trust anyone except the physician. If Hannah was any indication, the servants held their employer in high esteem. At best, she wouldn’t believe Elisabeth; at worst, she’d go directly to Ashcroft. And if she did, Elisabeth would be doomed.
“Hmmm,” the physician said as he removed the stethoscope’s ivory trumpet. He jotted something down in his notebook, frowning.
She wouldn’t be surprised if her heartbeat sounded abnormal. She could barely sit still, and she hadn’t slept. The reflection in the vanity’s mirror showed that she was as pale as a ghost, with dark circles beneath her eyes.
“And you say that you grew up in a library,” the physician went on. “Interesting. Do you read many books, Miss Scrivener? Novels?”
“Yes, of course. As many as I can. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Hmmm. Just as I thought.” He scribbled another note. “An excess of novel reading, combined with the excitement of the past few days . . .”
She failed to see how any of this was relevant. “May I speak to you alone?” she asked.
“Of course, Miss Scrivener,” he replied, in a mild, indulgent tone that raised her hackles. But at least he dismissed Hannah and Mr. Hob from the room. “What is it you would like to speak to me about?”
Elisabeth took a deep breath, waiting until the door clicked shut. Then she launched into an explanation immediately, racing through the details of the aetherial combustion in Summershall, the attempt on her life the night before last, and what she had witnessed in Ashcroft’s study. She spoke in a forceful undertone, aware that Hannah might attempt to eavesdrop on the other side of the door. “So you see,” she finished, “you must notify someone at once—someone who isn’t involved with the Magisterium, in case any of the other sorcerers are loyal to the Chancellor. Anyone at the Collegium would do, or even the Queen.”
The physician had dutifully taken notes the entire time. “I see,” he said, adding one final flourish. “And how long have you believed the Chancellor to be responsible?”
“I don’t believe he is responsible. I know he is.” Elisabeth sat up straighter. “What are you writing?” Among the physician’s scribbled notes, she had made out the word “delusions.”
He snapped the notebook shut. “I know all of this must be very frightening for you, but try not to agitate yourself. Excitement will only worsen the inflammation.”
She stared. “The—what?”
“The inflammation of your brain, Miss Scrivener,” he explained patiently. “It is quite common among women who read novels.” Before Elisabeth could think of a reply to this baffling remark, he called Hannah back into the room, who looked pinched with