Page 93 of Foresyth Conservatory
Then I felt it again, a subtle pull, almost imperceptible, at the base of my navel. A faint buzzing filled my ears—the same sound I’d heard during my last reading. I followed the pull to the center of the room and looked down. The ground was tangled with roots except for one small, smooth spot, coated in a layer of white dust. I crouched down, pressing my hand to the stone, and felt it—the slight rise and fall of my hand, like the House itself was breathing.
The House is alive.
The thought unsettled me, lingering as I scanned the room. The roots clung to every surface, as if the House itself were holding back secrets, drawing me in, yet resisting my presence. This place wasn’t just a structure; it was abeing, a keeper of hidden arcana. I wondered if the House was pulling me toward answers or warning me to stay away.
I wasn’t going to let it decide.
I dusted the stone, revealing a familiar symbol—a lion with a serpent’s tail, the demiurge. The buzzing intensified as my fingers traced over it. I unsheathed my dagger and wedged it into the stone’s edge, prying it up. After a few attempts, the tile gave way, revealing an opening. I struck another match and held the flame over the gap. A box lay inside, plain and unremarkable. It looked like one of those slim, metallic cases my father used to store evidence in.
Actually, it was identical to the one he’d carried.
I reached into the hole just as the match burned low. I’d have to wait to examine it in full light, but for now, I grabbedthe box and stuffed it into my bag as the buzzing in my ears reached a crescendo.
When I turned toward the red door, two green eyes glared at me. The Grifferact.
It lunged, its beak grazing my shoulder just as I managed to duck and roll aside. Pain shot through my shoulder, where its beak had sliced the skin. I scrambled behind a barrel as the creature screeched, furious and flailing. I glanced at the dagger in my hand, realizing I had managed to stab it. Not enough to kill, but enough to wound. Just as it had wounded me.
I need to get out of here.
I took a quick assessment of my opponent. The Grifferact dragged its hind leg, injured. Its movements were jerky and erratic. It wasn’t truly alive; it wasanimated. I remembered the Grifferact was blind—it hadn’t seen me; it had heard me. I grabbed a piece of rubble at my feet, angling my good arm for a solid throw. I needed it to land far enough to divert the creature but not so far it bounced back toward me.
I threw the stone. It clattered in the center of the room, and the Gifferact turned toward it. I seized the chance, slipping past it and bolting for the door. Just as I made it through, the creature turned, claws extended. I managed to slam the door shut, narrowly avoiding a strike of its beak.
Without pausing, I sprinted down the tunnel. I was down to five matches, lighting them sparingly as I retraced my path. I was on my last match when I reached the bookcase threshold. My blouse was soaked in blood, my Oxfords sodden with mud and grime, and my shoulder throbbed with pain. But I clutched my bag tightly, gripping thestainless-steel case as if it was the very air inside my lungs, and hurried up the stairs, into the light.
Chapter 30: Blackburnes’ Letters
I was bleeding, but that wasn’t my main concern. My mind buzzed with the possibilities of what I’d just found, and the relief of survival. In my bathroom, I tore off my bloodied blouse and leaned over the sink to clean the wound. I was so focused on my task that I didn’t notice the door opening.
“Dahlia, I heard you running. My Gods, you’re bleeding!” Sequoia exclaimed, rushing to my side. She gently pulled my hair back so I could better wash the injury. I didn’t bother looking at my disheveled reflection, focusing instead on scrubbing the wound as clean as I could.
“How bad does it look?” I asked.
“Uh, it’s hard to say. It’s in the shape of a triangle. Looks like a bird bit you or something. How did this happen?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Sequoia frowned, clearly frustrated by my secrecy, but continued tending to the wound without further questioning. “Hold this on it while I go grab a first aid,” she said, pressing a washcloth to my shoulder.
“I have a medical kit in my room,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Let me help you. That’s going to be tough to patch on your own.” She was right; it would be quicker to let her help, even if it meant facing a barrage of questions, delaying me from retrieving the case in my bag.
“Fine,” I sighed. I needed to get it closed quickly to avoid infection. We made our way to my room. I kept pressure on the wound as the pain in my shoulder grew sharper.
“There.” I nodded toward my dresser where I’d laid out medical supplies and a small bottle of pain suppressant. “The bottle, too, please.”
“At least you’re prepared,” Sequoia noted, gathering the supplies. She sat beside me, and I tried to ignore the memory of the last time we’d shared a bed. I opened the bottle and took a few drops of the tincture.
She worked with a gentle touch, her fingers cool against my inflamed shoulder. “It’s not a clean cut. You might need stitches, or it’ll scar badly.”
“It’ll be fine. Just stop the bleeding, and I’ll live.”
Even without looking, I sensed her pursing her lips. Sequoia wasn’t the type to bear visible scars. Perhaps sensing my distraction, she hesitated, then said, “About the other night . . .”
I met her gaze. “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know, I just don’t want you thinking we used any magick on you,” she said quietly. I placed my hand over hers as she finished the bandage, a wave of guilt washing over me. Sequoia was worried I might feel used by them, when in truth, I had been the one using her.
