“You are most definitely a snob, Darlington.”

“Well, I’m not that particular kind of snob. We have only two real concerns: Does their magic work and is it dangerous?”

“Does it?” asked Alex. “Is it?”

“The answer to both questions is sometimes. Aurelian specializes in unbreakable contracts, binding vows, stories that can literally put the reader to sleep. In 1989 a certain millionaire slipped into a coma in the cabin of his yacht. A copy of God and Man at Yale was found beside him, and if anyone had thought to look they would have found an introduction that exists in no other version—one composed by Aurelian. You may also be interested to know that Winston Churchill’s last words were ‘I’m bored with it all.’ ”

“You’re saying Aurelian assassinated Winston Churchill?”

“That’s mere speculation. But I can confirm that half of the dead in Grove Street Cemetery only stay in their graves because the inscriptions on their tombstones were crafted by members of Aurelian.”

“Sounds pretty powerful to me.”

“That was the old magic, when they were still considered a landed society. Aurelian was kicked out of their rooms when union contract negotiations with the university soured. The charge was serving alcohol to minors, but the fact is that Yale felt Aurelian had botched the initial contracts. They lost Room 405 and their work has been shaky ever since. These days, they mostly manage the occasional nondisclosure agreement or inspiration spell. That’s what we’ll be seeing tonight.”

They passed the administrative offices of Woodbridge Hall and the glowing golden screens of Scroll and Key. The Locksmiths had canceled their next ritual. It wouldn’t mean any less work for Lethe—Book and Snake had been happy to move into the Thursday night slot in their place—but Darlington wondered exactly what was going on at Keys. There had been rumors of weakening magic, portals that malfunctioned or didn’t open at all. It might all be talk—the Houses of the Veil were secretive, competitive, and prone to petty gossip. But Darlington would take the delay as an opportunity to dig into what Scroll and Key might be contending with before he dragged his Dante into a possible mess.

“If Aurelian isn’t dangerous, why do we need to be there?” Alex asked.

“To keep the proceedings from being interrupted. This particular ritual tends to draw a lot of Grays.”

“Why?”

“All of the blood.” Alex’s steps slowed. “Please don’t tell me you’re squeamish. You won’t make it through a semester if you can’t handle a bit of gore.”

Darlington immediately felt like an ass. After what Alex had survived back in California, of course she’d be wary. This girl had witnessed real trauma, not the theater of the macabre to which Darlington had become so accustomed.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but she was gripping the strap of her satchel with clenched fists.

They entered the stark plateau of Beinecke Plaza, the library’s windows glowing like chunks of amber.

“You will be,” he promised. “This is a controlled environment and a simple spell. We’re basically just serving as bouncers tonight.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t look okay.

They pushed through the library’s revolving door and into the high vault of the entry. Gordon Bunshaft had envisioned the library as a box within a box. Behind the empty security desk a vast glass wall rose to the ceiling, packed with shelves of books. This was the real library, the stacks, the paper-and-parchment heart of Beinecke, the outer structure that surrounded it acting as entry, shield, and false skin. Large windows on every side showed the empty plaza beyond.

A long table had been set up not far from the security desk, a comfortable distance away from the cases, where rotating exhibits from the library’s collections were displayed and where the Gutenberg Bible was housed in its own little glass cube, lit from above. A single page of it was turned every day. God, he loved this place.

The Aurelians were milling around the table, already in their ivory robes, chatting nervously. That giddy energy alone was probably enough to start drawing Grays. Josh Zelinski, the delegation’s current president, broke away from the group and hurried over to greet them. Darlington knew him from several American studies seminars. He had a Mohawk, favored oversize overalls, and talked a lot. A woman in her forties trailed him, tonight’s Emperor—the alumna selected to supervise the ritual. Darlington recognized her from a rite Aurelian had conducted the previous year to draw up governing documents for her condo board.

“Amelia,” he said, reaching for the name. “A pleasure to see you again.”

She smiled and glanced at Alex. “Is this the new you?” It was the same thing they’d asked Michelle Alameddine when she’d taken him around his freshman year.

“Meet our new Dante. Alex is from Los Angeles.”

“Nice,” said Zelinski. “Do you know any movie stars?”

“I once swam naked in Oliver Stone’s pool—does that count?”

“Was he there?”

“No.”

Zelinski looked genuinely disappointed.

“We’ll start at midnight,” said Amelia.

That gave them plenty of time to set up a perimeter around the ritual table.

“For this rite, we can’t block the Grays out completely,” Darlington explained as he and Alex walked a wide circle around the table, choosing the path of the boundary they would create. “The magic requires that the channels with the Veil remain open. Now tell me first steps.”

He’d assigned her excerpts from Fowler’s Bindings and also a short treatise on portal magic from the early days of Scroll and Key.

“Bone dust or graveyard dirt or any memento mori to form the circle.”

“Good,” said Darlington. “We’ll use this tonight.” He handed her a stick of chalk made from compressed crematory ash. “It will allow us to be more precise in our markings. We’ll leave channels open at each compass point.”

“And then what?”

“Then we work the doors. The Grays can disrupt the ritual, and we don’t want this kind of magic breaking loose. Magic needs resolution. Once this particular rite begins, it will be looking for blood, and if the spell gets free of the table, it could literally slice some nice law student studying a block away in two. One less lawyer to plague the world, but I’m told lawyer jokes are passé. So if a Gray tries to come through, you have two options: dust them or death words.” Grays loathed any reminder of death or dying—lamentations, dirges, poems about grief or loss, even a particularly well-phrased mortuary ad could do the trick.

“How about both?” asked Alex.

“There’s really no need. We don’t waste power if we don’t have to.”

She looked skeptical. Her anxiety surprised him. Alex Stern might be graceless and uneducated, but she’d shown plenty of nerve—at least when anything but moths were concerned. Where was the steel he’d glimpsed in her before? And why did her fear disappoint him so acutely?

Just as they were finishing their markings to close the circle, a young man passed through the turnstile, his scarf pulled up nearly to his eyes. “The guest of honor,” murmured Darlington.

“Who is he?”

“Zeb Yarrowman, wunderkind. Or former wunderkind. Surely the Germans have a name for prodigies who age out of enfant terrible.”

“You would know, Darlington.”

“Too cruel, Stern. I have time yet. Zeb Yarrowman wrote a novel his junior year at Yale, published it before he graduated, and was the darling of the New York literary scene for several years running.”

“Good book?”

“It wasn’t bad,” Darlington said. “Malaise, madness, young love, the usual bildungsroman fare, all set against the background of Zeb working at his uncle’s failing dairy. But the prose did impress.”

“So he’s here to mentor someone?”

“He’s here because The King of Small Places was published almost eight years ago and Zeb Yarrowman hasn’t written a word since.” Darlington saw Zelinski signal to the Emperor. “It’s time to start.”

The Aurelians had assembled in two even lines, facing each other on either side of the long table. They wore white cloaks almost like choir robes, with pointed sleeves so long they brushed the tabletop. Josh Zelinski stood at one end, the Emperor at the other. They put on white gloves of the type used to handle archival manuscripts and unfurled a scroll down the table’s length.

“Parchment,” said Darlington. “Made from goatskin and soaked in elderflower. A gift for the muse. But that’s not all she requires. Come on.” He led Alex back to the first marks they’d made. “You’ll watch the southern and eastern gates. Don’t stand between the markings unless you absolutely have to. If you see a Gray approaching, just step into his path and use your graveyard dirt or speak the death words. I’ll be monitoring the north and west.”