Page 30 of A Resistance of Witches

“And you?”

“Doing inventory.” Lydia smiled her warmest, most disarming smile. “I’m to make a list of which pieces are here, then report back. Arrangements will be made for the safe transport of the art out of the country until after the war, at which point they will be returned to the Louvre.”

“And where exactly will you be taking them?”

“I’m afraid they don’t tell me those sorts of things. Not London, for obvious reasons. Somewhere safe.”

Henry crossed his arms. “Miss Polk—”

“Lydia, please.”

“Miss Polk. With all due respect, I don’t know you. I don’t know who you work for. Who’s to say that once I hand over these pieces, you won’t take them straight to Berlin? Or burn them in a bonfire if they aren’t to Hitler’s taste?”

Lydia stood a little taller. “With all due respect toyou, Mr. Boudreaux, how do you think we knew where to find you? Your presence has not gone unnoticed in the village. The Germans will discover you soon enough if they haven’t already. If I leave here empty-handed, rest assured, your next visit will undoubtedly be from the SS. And I promise you, they will not ask permission before taking what they want.”

Lydia waited as Henry considered her. She imagined that moon again, hanging above her head like a blade, ready to fall.

“Please,” she said. “Let me help.”

•••

The stone steps under Lydia’sfeet were perfectly smooth and dipped in the center where four hundred years of footsteps had worn them away. Henry led the way until they reached the topmost floor of the château.

“Where is he now?” Lydia asked. “The curator you came here with?”

“René had personal business to attend to. He should be back in a day or two.”

They came to a long, dark room, cold and bare of any furniture save for a handful of scarred tables and chests of drawers. Along the walls, wooden crates of all shapes and sizes leaned against one another. Some were marked with colored circles—red, yellow, green—while others lay hidden under sheets. Henry carried a small oil lamp, which he lifted high, making eerie shapes along the walls.

“Are these all…” Lydia trailed off.

“The greatest treasures of the art world. Some of them, at least.” Lydia stood for a moment in silence. Henry cleared his throat. “You’re an art historian?”

“Yes.” She could feel something pulling her into the next room. A low, energetic pulse.That must be where they kept the book, she thought with a sudden, exhilarated rush.

“Here, let me show you something.” Henry took a crowbar from the floor and used it to crack open a flat crate, letting handfuls of packing straw fall to the floor as he did. Inside was a painting of a seated woman, attended by another woman, who knelt at her feet. The subject was nude and round bellied, with skin the color of milk. She remindedLydia of the fertility goddesses she had seen depicted on the walls of the academy.

“She’s beautiful.” Lydia stepped closer to see more clearly in the flickering lamplight.

“Bathsheba at Her Bath. Botticelli.”

She could feel his eyes on her, assessing. She tried her best to sound authoritative. “Yes, I know.” In the next room, the magical hum continued, demanding her attention. “Is there more in here?”

“Mm-hmm. Follow me.”

The next room was much like the last, but smaller and darker. There were more crates, along with some scattered figures draped in sheets, giving Lydia the unnerving sensation that they weren’t quite alone. She could feel the diluted power of theGrimorium Bellum—smudgy handprints left behind by old, powerful magic. But there was something else, as well. Some newer, fresher magic, laid like a blanket over the old, mixing the signals. The mingling of the two created a dissonant hum that felt like a migraine, and Lydia grimaced, trying to make sense of it.

“Where did you say you went to school?” Henry was standing in the doorway, watching her.

“What?” Lydia couldn’t concentrate. The messy, dueling magic seemed to vibrate together, creating a static charge in the air. “What is that smell? Incense?”

“Cedar.”

A slow, mounting dread bubbled up inside her. “You burned cedar? Why?”

“Miss Polk.” His voice had changed.

“What?”She forced herself to block out the tangled hum of magic all around them and looked at Henry.

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