the Malefict frozen in midleap a mere hand-span from the windows. Nathaniel stood behind it, one arm outflung, so rigid with tension that a vein stood out in his neck. His hand shook with effort as his lips formed the words of the spell.
Slowly, surely, the Malefict began to fold inward on itself. The limbs curled, the head bowed, the scaled hide shrank inward. Its shape grew smaller and smaller. And then the light vanished, and the Codex dropped to the floor, intact, with a slam that resounded through the foyer.
Gingerly, Elisabeth scraped to her feet as Nathaniel doubled over, panting. He bit back a muffled groan, and she realized that she had asked far more of him than she’d imagined. She had felt confident Nathaniel could handle magic like this—Nathaniel, who brought stone to life and summoned storms—but in truth, she had never heard of a Malefict’s condition being reversed. If it were easy, there would be no need for the Great Libraries or wardens.
“Nathaniel,” she said. She stepped toward him, and collapsed.
Darkness swam before her eyes. Blood roared in her ears. Through the crashing waves of dizziness, she grew aware of someone holding her. She blinked rapidly, and the world filled back in. Nathaniel was touching her. His hands coursed over her sides, her arms, the contact at once impersonal and fraught with urgency. He was checking her body for injuries.
She didn’t want him to stop. She had never been touched like this before. His hands left impressions across her skin like the trails of comets, urgent and tingling, her body yearning for more. A breathless ache filled her chest. The intensity of the sensation overwhelmed her.
“Where are you hurt? Can you tell me?” When she didn’t respond, Nathaniel cradled her face in his hands. “Elisabeth!”
The sound of her first name spoken in Nathaniel’s voice, in that tone, finally jolted her to her senses. “I’m not hurt,” she said. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. “I just stood up too quickly. I’m . . .”
“Exhausted,” he finished when she trailed off, his gray eyes roving over her face. “When was the last time you slept?”
Three nights ago. She didn’t say that out loud. Nathaniel’s expression had already withdrawn. A muscle tensed in his jaw as he helped her stand and guided her to a chair. He looked sick, as though their shared touch had turned toxic, or the air was swirling from the room like water down a drain. Confusion pounded in Elisabeth’s head. As her dizziness receded, her mind caught up. The explanation became clear: he thought this was his fault.
“Wait,” she protested, but he had already stepped away.
“Silas,” he said.
The moment Silas appeared in the shadows of the foyer, Nathaniel went to him. Elisabeth felt fine now, barely light-headed at all, but the tangle of emotions in her throat formed a knot so large she could barely breathe. Whatever was about to happen, she wished she could stop it, reverse time, give herself a chance to talk to Nathaniel first. Helplessly, she watched him lean over Silas and speak in a furious undertone.
“Why didn’t you tell me I’ve been having nightmares? I’m not a child any longer. If I use sorcery while I’m asleep, while there is someone else in the house, I need to know about it! For heaven’s sake, Silas, I could have hurt her!”
“Master,” Silas said, quellingly.
“What was it this time?” Nathaniel went on, relentless. “Blood dripping from the walls, or corpses crawling along the hallway? Or perhaps it was my personal favorite, the apparition of Father staggering around with his throat cut. That one got rid of the butler in a hurry.”
“They are illusions, master. Harmless.”
“Don’t.” The word landed like a slap. “You know the magic that runs in my family’s blood. You served Baltasar.”
Silas inclined his head. “Therefore, I should think that my opinion—”
“I said, don’t. Don’t argue with me. Not about this.” He added, expression cold, every inch a magister, “That’s an order.”
Silas’s lips thinned. Then, impassively, he bowed.
Nathaniel dragged his hands through his hair and paced across the foyer. He wouldn’t meet either of their eyes. “I’ll locate alternative lodgings for you, Miss Scrivener,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than a day or two. This arrangement was temporary from the start.” With that, he headed for the stairs.
Elisabeth tried to understand how she had gone from “Elisabeth” to “Miss Scrivener” in a matter of seconds. The situation was tumbling away from her at horrifying speed, unraveling like a