Sorcery of Thorns (15 page)

The double doors were engraved with a baroque-style
gryphon.
A footman dressed in golden livery stood in front of them. Elisabeth eyed him suspiciously, but he didn’t have strangely colored eyes, nor did he repel her thoughts the way Silas had while exerting his influence. He was a man, not a demon.

“The Chancellor will arrive momentarily,” he said, and Nathaniel groaned.

“What?” she asked.

“Ashcroft enjoys making grand entrances. He’s an insufferable
show-off. The press can’t get enough of him.”

Elisabeth thought it was rather hypocritical for Nathaniel to complain about people making grand entrances when he himself had arrived at Summershall in a carriage carved all over with thorns, and had made every statue in the courtyard come alive and at least one of them wave a sword, but she decided to keep that to herself, because she had just caught
a whiff of aetherial combustion.

She stumbled back as a thread of golden light zigzagged through the air in front of her, like a rip appearing in a piece of fabric. The doors to the manor rippled, distorted, as a man pushed a flap of air aside and stepped through, affording a glimpse of a warmly lit study behind him. Elisabeth blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It was as if
the world had transformed into a scene painted onto a set of curtains, and this other room was what lay beyond them. The man—the Chancellor—let go of the air, or the curtain, or whatever it was, and the sliver of study closed up behind him. As quickly as it had broken, reality returned to normal.

Chancellor Ashcroft beamed, bowing to the reporters as they broke into applause. Though he was almost
old enough to be Elisabeth’s father, he was undeniably handsome. His brilliant smile revealed laugh lines around his eyes that gave him a look
of mischievous good humor, and his thick, glossy blond hair didn’t show a hint of gray. He wore a golden cloak over a pearl-white suit, with an embroidered gold waistcoat on underneath.

“It’s so good to see you, Nathaniel,” he said. “And you must be Miss
Scrivener. I am Oberon Ashcroft, the Chancellor of Magic. What a pleasure to meet you.”

He took her hand and kissed it. All the words flew out of Elisabeth’s head like a flock of startled pigeons. No one had ever kissed her before, even on her hand. When Ashcroft straightened again, she saw that while his right eye was bright blue, the left was a deep, gleaming crimson that caught the light like
a ruby. Remembering what Silas had told her, she guessed that the crimson eye was his demonic mark.

“Miss Scrivener, I must apologize for the danger you encountered last night. I never imagined that such a thing could happen—fiends, running wild through the streets—but that’s no excuse for failing to ensure your safety while you were under the Magisterium’s protection.”

“Don’t you mean its custody?”
she asked. A few of the reporters gasped, and Elisabeth froze, feeling a stirring of panic.

But Ashcroft didn’t look angry. Instead, he gave her a rueful smile. “No—you’re quite right. The Magisterium made a mistake, and it would be distasteful of me to pretend otherwise. How are you coping?”

His concern took her aback. “I . . .”

“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Accused of a crime you
didn’t commit, imprisoned, attacked by demons, and of course the loss of your Director, Irena. She was a remarkable woman. I had the pleasure of meeting her some years ago.”

Suddenly, Elisabeth’s eyes prickled with unshed tears. “I am well,” she said, squaring her shoulders, willing the tears to
retreat. This was the first time anyone had suggested to her that she had a right to grieve the Director’s
death, rather than accusing her of being responsible for it. Ashcroft even knew the Director by name. “I just want whoever killed her to be caught.”

“Yes.” He looked at her gravely. “Yes, I understand. Excuse me for a moment . . .” He turned to the reporters. “I called this press meeting to make a brief announcement. Following the events of last night, and having reviewed certain discrepancies
in the official report from Summershall, Miss Elisabeth Scrivener is no longer a suspect in our investigation.” Shock jolted through Elisabeth. “She is, instead, to be commended by the Magisterium for her brave actions in Summershall, which saved countless lives. The loss of a Class Eight grimoire is devastating to Austermeerish magic, but Miss Scrivener made the best choice available to her in
a critical situation, and she performed to the highest possible standard. I will be personally sending a letter of recommendation to the Collegium, advising the preceptors to consider her for warden’s training when she completes her apprenticeship.”

Elisabeth swayed on her feet. A hand steadied her, a light, unexpected touch between her shoulders. Nathaniel stood at her side, gazing straight
ahead.

“As you know,” Ashcroft was saying, “the Great Libraries were built by my ancestor, Cornelius, so my commitment to bringing the saboteur to justice is far more than just a professional concern. . . .”

Elisabeth found that she could no longer follow the words. Her heart felt like it had grown too large for the confines of her ribs. She tried to keep her posture straight, desperate to look
worthy of the Chancellor’s praises, while privately, shamefully, another part of her wanted to hide. She had never known that
hope could hurt so badly, like blood rushing back to a deadened limb.

She was grateful when afterward, as the reporters dispersed, Ashcroft drew Nathaniel aside to speak to him alone. She studied the gryphons on the door, pretending she couldn’t hear snatches of their
conversation through the sound of carriage wheels crunching on gravel.

“Before you leave,” Ashcroft was saying in a low voice, “I wanted to thank you for what you did for Miss Scrivener.” He paused. “Ah. I see. You haven’t told her, have you?”

Nathaniel’s reply was indistinct. What were they talking about? If only she could see their faces. The footman came past carrying her trunk, and she moved
out of the way. When she looked up, Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. Glancing around wildly, she saw him stepping briskly toward the coach, his emerald cloak billowing at his heels.

“Nathaniel!” she called out, as he began to climb into the coach. He flinched at the sound of her voice. Then he angled his face, waiting.

“You were going to leave without saying good-bye,” she said.

“Good-bye,
Scrivener,” he said promptly, without looking at her. “It truly was a pleasure, aside from the time you bit me. Try not to knock over any of the Chancellor’s bookcases.”

Elisabeth had a strange feeling in her chest, like a soft piece of parchment being torn, just a little. She might never see Nathaniel again. She still didn’t have his measure, but they had fought together last night—saved lives
together—and surely that counted for something. Surely it was enough for him to want to shake her hand, or at least look her in the eye before he left.

She wished she had something better to say. But she couldn’t think of anything, so she only said, “Good-bye.”

Nathaniel hesitated for a long moment. Silas, sitting in the driver’s seat, passed a glance between the two of them, as though he could
see something between herself and Nathaniel that she could not. Then Nathaniel nodded, in a formal sort of way, and climbed inside and shut the door. Silas flicked the reins. The coach began to move.

So that’s it
, she thought.

She watched the coach grow smaller as it traveled along the drive, the sun shining from its lacquered roof, feeling a loss she couldn’t explain.

TWELVE

“M
ISS SCRIVENER?”

Elisabeth started and looked up. Ashcroft stood beside her, and Nathaniel’s coach was out of sight. She received the impression that the Chancellor had been speaking to her for some time now, but she hadn’t
heard a single word. She stammered out an apology, followed by a series of disjointed thank-yous for everything he had said during the speech, none of which seemed to make very much sense even to her own ears.

His expression softened. “Don’t worry about any of that. Why don’t you come inside?”

She followed him into the manor, and her eyes widened in wonderment. All the chandeliers were lit,
throwing a liquid shine from the polished marble and gilded stuccowork. Mirrors in elaborate gold frames reflected the light from every angle. Servants in matching golden livery hurried to and fro, pausing to bow in their direction.

“You will be safe here,” Ashcroft said. “The grounds are heavily warded; there hasn’t been an intruder on the property in
hundreds of years. In fact, in the seventeenth
century, Ashcroft Manor even repelled an army.”

With the manor’s radiance shimmering across his blond hair and handsome features, the Chancellor resembled a hero from the pages of a storybook. Shyness gathered around Elisabeth like a layer of tulle, gauzy and unfamiliar. For once, she had to muster the courage to speak. “Sir, what was it that Nathaniel didn’t tell me?”

“Ah. I see you overheard.”
A smile played about his mouth. “Well, he insisted on being the one to escort you from Summershall. It sounds as though you left quite the impression on him last spring—he was utterly convinced of your innocence. Nathaniel so rarely believes the best of people, I didn’t have the heart to deny his request.”

Surprise rendered her speechless. She glanced reflexively toward the windows, but the coach
was long gone. Nathaniel had been concerned about her? That seemed impossible. He certainly hadn’t shown any sign of it. Had he?

“Ah, Mr. Hob!” Ashcroft called out to a passing butler. “I see you’ve brought Miss Scrivener’s things upstairs. Would you show her to her room?” He turned back to Elisabeth. “Miss Scrivener, I’m afraid my duties beckon. However, I would like to discuss the Summershall
incident with you tomorrow. If there’s any information you can give me—anything at all that you think might have caused the saboteur to target you last night—it would be of great help to our investigation.”

She nodded, then hesitated as the butler led her toward the stairs. She did have information to give him; she was the only person who knew that the sabotage had been carried out by a sorcerer.
Why not tell him now, rather than waiting until tomorrow? It would only take a moment. She paused on the bottom
step, feeling dwarfed by the expanse of white marble and gilded banisters. “Sir?”

Ashcroft turned, his ruby eye catching the light of the chandeliers. He didn’t look annoyed, only politely questioning, but her conviction faltered. Perhaps now wasn’t the right time, after all—not with
the butler and all the other servants listening.

“Where is your demonic servant?” she asked instead.

Ashcroft looked faintly surprised. “I keep her out of sight during the day, since demons upset my wife, Victoria. It’s for the best. Lorelei has always served me faithfully, but one should never allow oneself to grow familiar with the creatures. It’s best not to forget that they only obey us
because they are bound to. Sorcerers have paid dearly for that mistake.”

“Like Nathaniel’s father,” she said tentatively.

“Ah . . . well.” His face clouded. “I don’t know the full story. Only that there were certain . . .” He shook his head. “Alistair was a good man. He wasn’t himself at the end. I wouldn’t wish to speak ill of the dead.”

Elisabeth turned his words over in her head as she followed
the butler upstairs. What had Ashcroft meant to say before he’d trailed off?

She couldn’t begin to fathom the bond between Nathaniel and Silas—how it was possible for Nathaniel to be so friendly with him not only knowing what he was, but after what he had done. And yet—Silas didn’t seem to have ever hurt the younger Master Thorn. Why hadn’t Silas taken advantage of the opportunity to harm him
when he was only twelve years old, vulnerable and afraid?

She frowned, shoving the thoughts aside. She shouldn’t waste time thinking about Nathaniel. It was none of her business if he wanted to risk his life trusting a demon.

“Your room, miss,” the butler said, stopping outside a door. His voice was muddy-sounding, as if he had difficulty speaking. She looked up at him in surprise, and felt
a twinge of unease. He was a huge man, solidly built, and considerably taller than even Elisabeth, which made him the tallest person she had ever seen. His suit fit oddly, and his gaze was curiously unfocused in a waxy face.

A rosy-cheeked servant bustled over, looking flustered. Flyaway strands of mousy brown hair wisped free from her bun. “Oh, good gracious, you’re Miss Scrivener, aren’t you?
Come along, come along—I’m Hannah, dear, and I’m going to look after you while you’re a guest here in the manor. Thank you, Mr. Hob.”

Mr. Hob nodded and slumped off.

“Don’t worry about old Mr. Hob,” Hannah whispered, noticing Elisabeth’s stare. “He had a fit some years ago that robbed him of most of his speech, but Master Ashcroft still hired him on when no one else would. A very decent thing
to do, and Mr. Hob’s as harmless as a fly, though he does sometimes give people a fright if they aren’t used to him.”

Shame flushed Elisabeth’s cheeks. She resolved not to stare at the butler again, or to be afraid of him. Obediently, she followed Hannah into the room.