and polished, the more the sparkling sense of wonder drained away, replaced by an emptiness that hollowed out a chasm in her chest. If she were never able to regain her standing with the Collegium, what was left for her in the world? Outside the Great Libraries, she felt like an animal in a menagerie—an oddity torn from its home and paraded through places it didn’t belong. Every day, she tried to convince herself to quit so she could focus all her energy on Ashcroft. And every day, a wave of terror paralyzed her at the mere thought. The moment she set aside her uniform and stepped out the door, there might be no going back.
Gertrude tsked and sighed, still convinced that Elisabeth was preoccupied with a boy. In a way, Elisabeth was. Her lack of sleep now owed itself to late nights around the flickering green fire in Nathaniel’s study. Cluttered with the results of their meetings, the room increasingly resembled the base of operations for a war. They had rearranged the furniture and tacked notes to the walls. But despite their efforts, Prendergast remained as uncooperative as ever, and they hadn’t gotten any closer to uncovering Ashcroft’s plans.
Today Elisabeth had been put to work cleaning the floor of the Observatory, whose blue-and-silver tiles gleamed like gemstones with every stroke of the mop. The room was designed for grimoires whose text could only be revealed by moonlight or starlight, or during certain planetary alignments. Astronomical devices whirred gently, off-limits to touch, particularly the enormous bronze armillary sphere that hung from the center of the Observatory’s glass dome like a chandelier. When she strayed to the edge of the room and peered down, she discovered a dizzying bird’s-eye view of the Collegium’s grounds. All appeared quiet this afternoon, except for a single rider galloping toward the library, dressed in travel-stained Collegium livery.
She was almost finished when the Observatory’s door creaked open. She looked up, expecting Gertrude with another task. Instead she caught a glimpse of a gold cloak entering the room.
“What would you like to speak to me about, Deputy Director?”
Shock numbed her at the sound of Ashcroft’s voice, as though the floor had collapsed and plunged her into frigid water. She darted behind a pedestal, clutching the mop to her chest. Hiding there, frozen, she listened to the rustle of Mistress Wick’s robes, willing her not to lead Ashcroft any nearer. No doubt the two of them believed the room to be empty.
Elisabeth’s gaze strayed to the bucket of soapy water sitting a few feet away, and cold sparks danced over her skin. As long as Ashcroft didn’t glance in the wrong direction . . .
“Just moments ago, we received news from a courier,” Mistress Wick said. “I thought you should be the first to know that the Great Library of Fairwater has been sabotaged.”
Elisabeth’s breath halted. Turning, she peeked through the interlocking rings of the instrument atop the pedestal. The pair of them had stopped near the center of the room, where an array of mirrors reflected a concentrated beam of sunlight onto the tiles. Ashcroft stood partially inside it, the light slicing a stripe across his sleeve and winking brightly from something in his hand. He held a decorative walking stick, the gold handle carved into the shape of a gryphon’s head.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I am so terribly sorry.” Though he sounded genuine, amusement shone in his mismatched eyes. “Were there many casualties?”
“Four wardens and three civilians are dead, poisoned by the Malefict’s miasma. Director Florentine survived, but she sustained a serious head injury. Reportedly, she cannot remember any details of the attack.”
Ashcroft’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. A head injury, or the effects of a spell? Elisabeth’s stomach turned. If only Mistress Wick could see his expression.
As the two of them continued speaking, she remembered last night’s meeting with Katrien and Nathaniel. By this point, they were almost certain that Ashcroft didn’t leave Brassbridge when the attacks happened. Unless he knew an unheard-of spell powerful enough to transport himself halfway across the country, he couldn’t possibly have carried out the attacks in person—not the one on Fettering, while he was interrogating Elisabeth every day in his study, and not this one, either; his clothes showed no signs of travel. Nathaniel’s best guess was that he had to be working with another sorcerer as an accomplice.
Finally, Ashcroft turned to go. “I will return to the Magisterium at once,” he was saying. “I assure you, we