I bike the narrow path that leads through the trees on the far side of the garden, sure that at any moment the Solarian will burst through the trees, but it doesn’t. I stop at the perimeter, the place where the air blurs, the line where the forest shimmers, like a mirage coming off a baking hot highway. I grip the handlebars of my bike tight and take a deep breath, and then step forward.
The air thickens around me and in my lungs, and my body grows heavy, and each step is a herculean effort, like I’m dragging myself through quicksand. My heart thuds painfully hard just to push blood through my veins. I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the feeling of the pressure clamping down on my skull.
But then it’s over. The crystal bracelet the Silver Prince gave me must carry magic too, somehow. And I didn’t even think to give it a second thought before now.
My mind races as I steer the bike down the mountain faster than I should. My heart hammers. At one point I almost hit a tree when a doe darts into my path. Later a pothole jars me so hard that I taste blood after biting my tongue. It’s like the universe is conspiring to keep me from catching up with the Heiress. But I must. I have to tell her what I know before she messes with any more of the silver.
I don’t fully understand what I read back in the Solarian wing, but the basics are clear enough. The silver objects may carry magic from all the worlds, but the binding itself—that’s Solarian. And from the letter—the letter written from a Solarian to my great-great-grandmother, the Innkeeper—it sounds like the binding causes something of the Solarian to remain … inside the object. Like a cross between a Horcrux and Aladdin’s magic lamp, only with monsters instead of genies. And the Heiress has been touching this stuff, handling it, surrounding herself with it.
This still goes against everything I know about magic. I always, always learned that magic was limited to its carriers. Fiordens can heal. Byrnisians have their elemental magic. And Solarians can shapeshift. It’s not supposed to be transferable. And yet, would the Heiress, would Marcus be so serious about the black market if all they were doing was cheating unscrupulous buyers out of a few bucks in exchange for ordinary silver? This has to be about more than just money. Solarians must be involved somehow, binding real magic to buy and sell.
And if the objects carry some part of the Solarian in them, then … what does it mean that Mom’s name is on a list of HOSTS? What does the Silver Prince’s accusation mean, that Marcus trusted Solarians too much, was trying to work with them?
My skin prickles. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know that the Heiress is in danger. She needs to know what I know.
It’s hot in town, even though the sky is gray with clouds. It’s like they’re a blanket, trapping in the June heat. Hot enough to drive everyone inside, I guess. The streets are empty, making the drone of insects on the air seem extra loud. Closed window shutters all around make me feel like I’m in some Old West ghost town. A dog barks somewhere, the sound echoing in the quiet. Soon sweat has soaked through my long-sleeve T-shirt. I can’t seem to get enough air, as if the Silver Prince’s barrier has clung to my skin.
I almost miss the turnoff to the antique store and yank my handlebars to the left, sending up a spray of gravel. I check my watch. 3:41. Good. Hopefully I can intercept the Heiress before her contact gets here and explain to her what I found, what I think is true. She can’t know about the objects’ connection to Solaria, or she would have never allowed them to change hands. My skin crawls when I think of them flowing out of Havenfall, circulating in the wider world.
I park out back, so the bike’s hidden, and enter the antique store through the rear door. A bell chimes overhead when I enter, but the shop is empty.
All the lights are off. Sunlight filters in through the front windows, but shadows line the shelves, clinging to the myriad objects perching there. Stacks of old-fashioned china, chipped mugs, porcelain figurines. Knit sweaters and blankets, Christmas ornaments, dolls and toy cars and action figures a few years out of date.
Sweat dampens my palms as I look around, my breath sounding loud in the silence. So many ordinary things, but now it all holds an air of subtle menace. How much Solarian magic has passed through this place? Before this summer, magic was something for me to believe in, hold on to, a glimpse of something shining and more in a mostly boring and unfeeling world. But this … this feels dark. Oppressive, violent.
A door at the back of the shop catches my eye. There’s a dark staircase leading downward, but I can see a light at the bottom. My hope rises that it’s the Heiress. I pad over and walk down, testing each narrow wooden stair for creaks before I give it my full weight.
The staircase opens into a narrow basement room with a dirt floor and cinderblock walls. It’s noticeably colder—I can’t help but shiver—and the light, from a bare bulb flickering against the ceiling, doesn’t reach the far end of the room. There’s nothing here, and I’m about to turn around and go back up into the summer warmth when a flash of movement, low to the ground in the dark, makes my heart stop.
A face materializes on the other side of the room. Not the Heiress. It’s too pale, the eyes too big. My heart is concussive in my ears as the person comes closer to the light.
Holy shit, it’s a kid. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, though it’s hard to tell because she’s so short and skinny. Her hair is in two dark braids and she wears rolled-up jeans and a Haven T-shirt. Her feet are bare on the cold dirt. A cuff around her ankle chains her to what I can now see is a radiator against the far wall.
My blood’s frozen. Coldness ripples through my body. I feel every bit as afraid as when I faced off with the Solarian in the woods. More than that. I want to run, I want to flee, because something is obviously deeply, deeply wrong. But I can’t leave her here. My blood roars.
It takes me too long to realize why her head snaps up, why her gaze focuses on something behind me and her eyes widen. Too long for the clomp of footsteps on the stairs to register. By the time it sinks in and I whip around, the strange man is already there, blocking my way out as he stares thoughtfully at me.
He is chalk-pale—Byrnisian, I realize with a shock, the faint pattern of scales ridging his forehead. I expected a human or even a Solarian. But no matter what, I know he’s not a friend.
I launch myself toward him. I don’t know what else to do, I just know that if a strange man gets you in his basement, you might as well kiss the world goodbye. But he just raises his hands and a wind bursts into existence, crashing through the small room, knocking me off my feet.
I sail past the girl and hit the wall hard. Pain explodes through the back of my head as I fall in a heap to the floor. The world spins and pulses around me, and I try to get up. But then the man is there, ripping the sleeve off my shirt in one violent motion and tying it around to gag my mouth. I swing my fists weakly, but they don’t connect with anything. Another moment, and there’s the ripping sound of duct tape tearing off a roll. And I’m attached to the radiator too.
Fear is a distant thing. I can’t focus on the man as he walks away. His movements are too fast, so I look at the girl. Crouching in the opposite corner, looking at me with those big dark eyes. Eyes that seem familiar somehow.
But I only have a moment to consider it. Because then the door at the top of the stairs slams shut, and my consciousness swims away with the light.