Oh, Viola. You are a Mortemagi. Thread magic comes with great sacrifice, but it also comes with raw beauty. It is what makes us, us. Besides, if someone is out to kill you, I would hope you don’t spare them.
As she tells me more about our magic, I can’t help but think of how long Grimm has been back, and how he could be anyone among us.
Attn: Editor in Chief,The Daily Mage
Report to DOTS headquarters immediately.
LETTER FROM DOTS TOTHE DAILY MAGEOFFICE, DECEMBER 1939
thirty-eight | sylas
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1939
Paltro’s office basks in the evergreen scent of pine and the crispness of late-afternoon snowfall. It’s also freezing cold, and the flimsy House shirt does little to keep away the sting of frost on my skin.
The brown cushioned armchair wraps me in a welcomed warmth when I settle in. Looking at the trinkets and books lining the multiple-wall shelves in front of me, I realize that Paltro’s office is a map of his travels. There’s something from each of the Ten Provinces and so many photographs. Only then does it occur to me that these aren’t books at all, but photo albums. I’ve been in and out of here since he joined Gorhail months ago, right after Dad’s death, and this is the first time I’m noticing that Paltro is a hoarder of memories.
Boots dust against the doormat, anchoring me to the reality that awaits me. My leg won’t stop fidgeting, and Railesza keeps glaring at me to stop. I am nervous. I don’t know how to lie to Paltro. I cannot. Dad trusted him with the three of us, and he’s never wavered.
“Scar has awoken,” he says again as he lays a black briefcase across his desk. He immediately reaches for a small tin—a new silver one—and scoops out two heaping teaspoons of leaves into the teapot. “The Death-bringer is alive.”
Or dead. And she has a daughter whose magic is forbidden by the laws we refuse to challenge.
He gives me a pointed look, waiting for me to correct him. We fall into an uncomfortable silence, interrupted by the gradual bubbling of the teapot. I feel exactly like the tea, like I’ve been dropped in boiling water. My clothes feel too tight, my skin burns, and my chest constricts. I get up, catching my breath in small increments.
“Oh, sit down, Sylas.” He rolls his eyes. “You are as good a liar as your father was. I know Alyria is dead, and you’ve confirmed that you know the whereabouts of her child.”
I stare at him, unblinking.
“Tea?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Please, it’s a special blend Sierra brought from Aurignan,” he insists, but I don’t want tea right now. I want to leave.
“No,” I manage, and he sighs, giving me a look. I wasn’t expecting my refusal of drinking tea to affect him so much; and I almost consider asking him to pour me a cup. But he unbuckles the briefcase, laying it flat across his desk. He moves several papers around, a few photographs here and there. I recognize the neat calligraphy of my father’s handwriting.
“What do you know of—”
I drown him out because my eyes lock on to a photograph of a group of people in front of Helna Azgar’s statue. They are all in Gorhail uniforms, some of them looking at one another with love; some of them in mid-laughter. I gingerly pluck up the photograph, bringing it closer. Mom and Dad are in there; so are Beau’s parents, the Deathbringer, and an almost identical version of Victor. In this photo, they look younger than us, so full of hopes, dreams, and life. Now most of them are dead.
Between the Deathbringer and my mom stands a short girl with black hair cropped to her ears. They lean on each of her shoulders, and smile to the camera. Her eyes, and especially her smile, remind me of someone, but who that is escapes me.
“Uncle.” I don’t look away from the picture, afraid that if I do, I’ll stop piecing together the clues we’ve amassed. “Who are these people?”
He peers over my shoulder, adjusting his glasses. “I haven’t seen this photograph in more than twenty years.” He lets out a long exhale. “From left to right, Eloise Beauchamps, Lily Ronin, Willow LaCroix, Aly Parrish, Elena Carver, Yasmin Darro, Alis Ducas, Faal Rowan, Benoit Cardot, Victor Carver Sr., Petyr Quince, Han Archyr, and Tobias Corvi.”
My mind is working faster than I can speak. I need to get out of here.Beau’s findings weren’t absurd at all, and Viola’s words swirl in my mind: the killings were personal. Nearly everyone in this picture is dead, save for Gryff’s mom, Aunt Yas; Elena Carver; and the LaCroix girl.
“Sylas?” Paltro calls my name, but I don’t reply. Most of our parents are dead, and now the killer is coming for who remains of their bloodlines. Still, I cannot grasp how it’s linked to Grimm and the missing cuff and book.
“Can I take this photograph?” One of my boots is already out the door when Paltro stops me.
“Sylas, I am not finished. We have much to discuss about your father’s investigations.”
I pocket the photo anyway. Paltro continues, “Han was investigating your mother’s lifedrain research shortly before his death. I have scoured his notes to no avail. Could we look over them together, and perhaps take a reader to Zoya?”
What would the library custodian know about Dad? That she’s nice and greets people every day doesn’t mean people will tell her their every secret. More than anything, I want to find out more about my parents, but they are already dead. Viola isn’t. My choice is clear.
“Son, you look unwell. Have some tea, please…”