She set out down the corridor, following the path of lamplight through the center. The Codex’s call number indicated that it was shelved about halfway down the archives. Now it was only a matter of finding it, removing it from the shelf, and sneaking back the way she had come. The hardest part would be climbing up the gate again to fix the bell after she escaped. She didn’t know what to expect from the Codex—whether it would cooperate with her like the copy in Ashcroft’s study, or whether it would fight her all the way out of the Royal Library.
Without warning, a tall, pale form rose from the floor nearby. Elisabeth whirled around, sweeping her cloak aside to grip Demonslayer’s hilt. Nothing was there—only an eddy in the mist, and a display pedestal made of white stone. She had glimpsed the pedestal out of the corner of her eye and mistaken it for a person. Cursing herself, she turned back ahead.
And like a scene from her nightmares, Chancellor Ashcroft stood before her. He looked just the same as she had last seen him, but waxen, his handsome face devoid of expression, both the blue eye and the red one staring straight through her. His golden cloak seemed to be spun from lamplight and mist. With a choked-off cry, Elisabeth yanked Demonslayer from her belt and swung it through the air.
Ashcroft stepped out of range. The faintest of smiles tugged at his mouth. She swung once more, and again he retreated, her sword missing by a hair. That slight, taunting smile suggested that he knew precisely why she was here.
This time, she had no doubt that he would kill her. Even armed with iron, she was no match for his magic. But he appeared content to toy with her first, and she wouldn’t go down without a fight, not if there was even the slightest chance of stopping him. They moved through the archives in a silent dance: Elisabeth slicing the mist to ribbons, Ashcroft backing toward the shelves.
Then he failed to step quickly enough, and her sword slashed through him.
He dissolved into mist.
More figures emerged from the shadows, advancing toward her. Warden Finch. Lorelei. Mr. Hob. Even the man who had cornered her in the alley—and he wasn’t the only dead person among them. The Director also rose from the mist, her spectral face grim with disappointment. They drew closer and closer, but Elisabeth didn’t step back, even though the Director’s expression made her stomach curdle. The figures weren’t real. Whoever had conjured them, on the other hand—
“Whatever you are, you’re showing me my fears,” she declared, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. “You’re trying to trap me, aren’t you?”
She sheathed Demonslayer and turned. A large, ornate display cage stood directly behind her. Had she taken even one more step, away from the illusions, she would have run into it. As soon as she realized that, the figures subsided back into the mist.
A woman’s pale, withered face gazed out at her from within the cage, mere inches away, floating in the darkness. Or it would have gazed at her, had the eyes not been stitched shut. And the face didn’t belong to a person, at least not any longer: it had been sewn onto a grimoire’s cover, which levitated opposite Elisabeth amid a swirl of vapor. A black ribbon twirled through the air around the grimoire, a silver needle gleaming on its end.
“Smart girl.” The grimoire spoke in a hissing, multitudinous voice: men, women, and children all speaking in chorus, each one as dry as sand whispering over bone. “We’ve taken three wardens with that trick, now that we’ve convinced the Illusarium to help us. Too bad. Such an interesting face you have. Not beautiful, but bold.”
The grimoire was unusually thick and heavily bound, filled with—more faces, Elisabeth thought in horror, as the binding creaked and the cover lifted, flipping past page after page of human faces, Enochian script simmering across them like freshly laid brands. At last it settled on an empty page and lovingly caressed the bare vellum with its needle.
“We have room for you, if you ever change your mind.”
“No, thank you,” Elisabeth said, inching away.
“Our stitches are neat. It would only hurt a little. . . .”
Elisabeth squared her shoulders and wheeled around, mindful not to bump into the white stone pedestal she had seen earlier, situated just a few feet away from the cage. A plaque beneath the pedestal read THE ILLUSARIUM,