Nocturna (A Forgery of Magic #1)(46)

“I’m not sure,” Alfie said, his fingers ghosting over the black ash. But it wasn’t black. It was a shade darker than should be possible, so dark that he blinked at it, startled by the depth of the color. This was a part of that foul magic, it could be nothing else. But why would it leave behind a pile of some sort of residue? His finger skated over something small and smooth beneath the surface of the dust. Alfie tentatively pinched it between his fingers and the black sand parted to reveal a silver earring.

His heart caught in his chest.

The servant boy who had nearly dropped a feather duster onto his own head, the boy who had looked at Alfie with such hope and admiration. He’d worn this earring.

Alfie shot up to his feet, his stomach roiling.

“This,” Finn said, her eyes wide. “This stuff was a person?”

Alfie could only nod, his throat feeling as if it was closing, leaving him to choke.

Hunger. That was what he’d felt emanating from the magic before he’d freed it from its cage of rings—a desire to feed that left Alfie feeling like a cornered animal. What would happen if the Englassen book didn’t have the answers he needed? Would all of Castallan be reduced to this black dust?

“Prince,” Finn said. She pointed over his shoulder, her face pale.

On the far end of the hall sat another pile of ash, this one larger than the first.

Alfie leaned against the wall, his hands shaking. He wasn’t fit to be king; he was scarcely fit to live after this. He’d done the very opposite of what his parents had taught him—he’d thought of himself, of his own desires above all else. And now people were suffering because of it. He put his face in his hands and willed his stinging eyes not to spill over.

The sound of rock rumbling quietly brought his attention back. Finn made a parting motion with her hands, and the stone ground beneath the first pile of ash split open. The remains of the boy fell in.

When he stared at her, she shrugged. “You said you want to take care of this without anyone finding out, right?”

She was right; they could hardly leave the piles of ash in the corridor, but his chest ached at the sight. “They deserve a proper burial.”

Finn stared at the sunken ashes. “A lot of people deserve a lot of things. But if this thing is destroying people that quick, we don’t have time for that.”

Guilt aside, he found himself nodding. A thought struck him. “Wait, don’t close it.”

They would need to track the magic down somehow, and if this dust was what it left in its wake, it was the perfect thing to use for tracking spellwork. If they followed the dust, they were bound to find its source. Alfie reached into the crevice, his throat burning at the thought of the little boy it once was. He pulled a handful of dust from the floor.

“To trace it by?” Finn asked, her eyes on his black-stained fingers. He nodded, glad to not find an ounce of judgment in her eyes. He pushed the black dust into his pocket.

“Rest easy,” Alfie said to the pile of remaining ash. There would be no body for this boy’s family to bury, to weep over. Just like Dez.

Finn made a closing motion and the stone pressed together again. They walked to the next pile and she did the same. Alfie watched, trying to swallow the bile crawling up the back of his throat. He couldn’t help but be both disgusted by her and grateful she was there. The way she stepped over the remains made him wonder what she’d done in her life to make this so easy. Yet without her resolve he didn’t know if he’d still be standing.

“Let’s go on, then,” she said. They stepped back under the cloak and walked down a twist of corridors, passing the towering doors of the library before they finally stood before Paloma’s door. Alfie stared at it, his hand frozen before the knob, his stomach twisting in anxiety.

He’d never been invited into Paloma’s rooms, let alone snuck into them unsupervised. To barge into her private quarters felt wrong, but his people were being reduced to ash. He had no time to waste on worrying about breaking rules of decorum.

Alfie opened the door and they darted in. He felt like he should clap a hand over his eyes to stop himself from even looking at the room. A narrow bed sat in the far corner, and shelves of books were neatly organized against the walls, their spines in different shades of leather. There was a dark wood desk where rolls of parchment and quills awaited her attention. He knew Paloma’s schedule—she would be in the library at this hour, leaving her room empty.

Finn pulled the cloak off them. “What are we looking for?” Her face was taut, no hint of the usual smirk.

“A black book with gold Englassen script.”

The thief turned to the nearest shelf, scanning the spines with keen eyes. Alfie went to the shelf beside the bed and searched. His hands passed over basic books of magic that Paloma had used to teach him as a child. Every book seemed to represent a moment where she’d encouraged him to become a better prince, a better person, and the longer he stayed in this room the more he felt himself disappointing her. Alfie clutched the collar of his shirt and tugged. Finn’s movement on the other side of the room caught his eye.

Without looking away from the shelf, he said, “Put it back.”

She sighed and put Paloma’s small silver mirror back on the shelf. No time for jokes, but still time to steal, it seemed. He was about to chastise her, but then he spotted it. There, wedged between thick volumes of magic.