• • •

The next day she entered the parlor with a second stack of books to find that in her absence every inch of it had been dusted and polished, the rug beaten, the sheets removed from the remaining furniture; the windows’ diamond-shaped panes sparkled between the mullions. A sweet aroma hung about the room, which Elisabeth traced to the new bouquet of lavender in the hearth. Even Lady Primrose found nothing to criticize, and resorted to a few noncommittal sniffs before she reluctantly fell silent.

Elisabeth passed another unsuccessful afternoon reading. Two days stretched into three, and she found herself no closer to an answer. At times her attention wandered while she climbed through the rafters of Nathaniel’s study, and she paused to watch him add an ingredient to the glass cauldron, which was still sending up purple smoke, or conjure a flock of hummingbirds that darted around him in iridescent flashes of viridian. The light sifting down from above outlined his shoulders and feathered his unruly hair. Sometimes, when the sun grew hot, he took off his waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. Then she saw the cruel scar that wound around the inside of his right forearm, starker here than in the dim hallway of the inn.

He continued to ignore her, but it was not, Elisabeth found to her surprise, an unfriendly feeling silence. It was a great deal like being back in Summershall, companionably going about her business with other librarians doing the same nearby. She didn’t want to examine that thought too closely, for it seemed wrong that a sorcerer’s study should feel so curiously like home.

Clothes arrived courtesy of Silas, a parade of silk dresses in shades of cerulean, rose, and striped cream. After trying them on and wondering at the novelty of having clothes that didn’t show her entire ankles, Elisabeth guiltily moved the blue dress to the back of her wardrobe. The color no longer reminded her of a warden’s uniform, but instead of her time spent as a prisoner in Ashcroft Manor. She had had nightmares of it since, her memories of the past several weeks blurring together into phantasmagorical horrors—lying helplessly in the thrall of Lorelei’s glamour while Ashcroft struck the Director down in front of her, or while a uniformed attendant tightened leather straps around her legs, Mr. Hob standing unblinkingly nearby. She woke from these dreams sweating in terror, and took hours to fall back asleep afterward.

Her breakthrough occurred on the third evening of her research, and it happened entirely by accident. She was taking notes in the parlor when a fight broke out between Lady Primrose and a Class Two named Throckmorton’s Peerage, who had been spitting wads of ink at the other grimoires on and off all afternoon. Finally, Lady Primrose’s nerves reached their limits. The parlor briefly transformed into a dervish of flying dust and flapping pages; then Throckmorton shunted itself beneath a cabinet, desperate to get as far away from the vengeful Lady Primrose as possible, who was emitting a high, thin shriek, like a teakettle.

“I can’t say I feel sorry for you,” Elisabeth said sternly, crouching on her hands and knees to haul Throckmorton back out like a misbehaving cat. “You should know better than to tease another grimoire.”

Then she saw it: the flash of a metal object wedged behind the cabinet, the sunlight striking it just so. Whatever it was, it looked as though it had slid down and become lost, trapped against the wall. Elisabeth reached for it, and instantly snatched her fingers back in shock. The object was freezing cold to the touch. She wrapped her hand in her skirt and tried again, this time carefully lifting the object into view.

It was a small hand mirror, its ornate silver frame elaborately scrolled and swirled. But it wasn’t an ordinary mirror. Icicles hung from the edges of the frame, and a layer of frost clouded the glass. When Elisabeth peered closer, she saw no hint of her own reflection. Ghostly, unfamiliar images flowed across the mirror’s surface, moving beneath the frost.

First the mirror showed her an empty salon in an unfamiliar house, its colors reduced to pale suggestions by the ice. She sucked in a breath when a child ran laughing across the salon, pursued by a nursemaid. Then the image swirled, replaced by an office in which a man sat signing papers, and again, showing her a drawing room in which one woman played the piano while another embroidered nearby. Elisabeth stared, entranced. Those were real people. Judging by the angle, she was seeing through the mirrors of their rooms.

She held the mirror close to her face. Every time she exhaled, her breath fogged the ice, and soon a clear spot melted away at the center, bringing forth a flush of color from the images. The tinkling notes of the piano filled the parlor, as if it were being played behind a shut door in Nathaniel’s house just a few rooms away. A lonely ache filled Elisabeth’s chest.

“I wish you would show me someone I knew,” she whispered to the glass. “I wish,” she said, “that you would show me my friend Katrien.”

The piano music stopped. The woman frowned and looked up, directly at Elisabeth. Her eyes widened, and she flew from the stool with a shriek. Elisabeth didn’t witness the rest. She was still processing the fact that the woman had been able to see her when the image swirled again. This time, it looked into her own room in Summershall.

Her room—and Katrien’s. Katrien sat on her bed, flipping through scribbled sheaves of notes. Crumpled pieces of paper covered Elisabeth’s old quilt and gathered around the edges of the room like snowdrifts. Some of them sat on the dresser, against the mirror, written in a deliberately illegible scrawl. Katrien was clearly up to something.

Elisabeth’s throat tightened. The mirror shook in her hand. She hadn’t expected it to obey her request. If the Collegium found out that she had used a magical artifact, she would never be permitted back inside a Great Library. Not only that, she didn’t know how the mirror worked, or where it drew its magic from—it could be dangerous to use. She should put it back where she’d found it and never touch it again.

But this was Katrien—truly Katrien, right in front of her. And she didn’t have the strength to turn away.

“Katrien,” she whispered.

Katrien sat bolt upright, then spun around. “Elisabeth!” she exclaimed, rushing to the dresser, her face filling the mirror. “What’s happening? Are you a prisoner?” She paused to take in Elisabeth’s surroundings. “Where are you?”

“I have so much to tell you. Wait! Don’t go!”

“I’m not going anywhere! But, Elisabeth, you’re fading—you’ve gone transparent—”

The frost was creeping back in. She breathed on the mirror again, but it was no use. This time, the frost didn’t recede. As she scrambled for a solution, a different idea occurred to her. In the Great Library, Katrien had access to resources that Elisabeth did not.

“I need your help,” she said into the rapidly diminishing circle. “I don’t have time to explain, but it’s important.”

“Anything,” Katrien said grimly.

“There’s a grimoire called the Codex Daemonicus. I think it’s a Class Five or Six. I need to find out where I can locate a copy—”

The last section of frost crystallized into place, and the mirror’s surface turned milky white. Elisabeth had no way of knowing whether Katrien had heard her. She sat back, squeezing her eyes shut against frustrated tears.

She kept the mirror close for the rest of the day, hidden beneath the armchair’s cushions, checking it periodically. But its magic seemed to have been exhausted. It showed her nothing, only a blank white oval. She lay awake in bed that night, watching a strip of moonlight travel across the ceiling, wondering what to do. The mirror sat on the covers beside her, its icy chill raising goose bumps on her bare arms. Katrien at once seemed close enough to touch and farther away than ever before.