A weight built in my chest, dragging my heart into the pit of my stomach. “What do you want?”

  The Bonecutter had been prepared for this moment—the ask was already poised on the tip of her tongue. “I would like your Hand of Glory, little Lark.”

  Panic fluttered through me. The lie was instinctive, born of a life with few possessions, and fewer true valuables. “I don’t have it anymore.”

  The Bonecutter looked utterly bored. She jutted the small point of her chin toward the workbag at my side. “Yes, you do. I can scent it.”

  “Great.” I grimaced. “Now I just feel bad that you’ve had to smell him this whole time.”

  “You should,” the Bonecutter said. “He reeks of burned hair and fatty meat. Do we have a deal?”

  I didn’t move. My thoughts raced, trying to outrun my heart.

  “That fetid thing crawled out of a dark pit,” Caitriona said. “Get rid of it.”

  Defensiveness prickled my every nerve. “He’s not that bad—”

  Emrys let out a laugh of disbelief.

  “No one asked for your opinion.” I turned and glared at him.

  He held up his hands. “Please, continue debating. We have all the time in the world to stand here while you attempt to process human emotions for the first time.”

  We’d bickered and fought countless times, and I’d certainly launched some magnificent insults his way in the past. But…the casual cruelty of his words stung like the kiss of a knife to my throat, and for a moment I couldn’t speak. I stared at him, at his perfect, beautiful face, and felt a new cold gather on my skin.

  His haughty expression dimmed, his eyes softening even before Olwen moved to slap him upside the head. I almost let myself believe he regretted it.

  Neve grabbed my hand between hers, drawing my focus back to her face. The understanding only made me feel worse.

  “Far be it from me to speak ill of your creepy little friend,” she said, “but weren’t you convinced he was trying to escape your bag to smother you the other night?”

  “Okay, fine, he’s horrible and may be some sort of cosmic punishment Fate has inflicted on me for wrongdoings in a past life,” I said. “But he’s still useful. He can unlock any door, remember?”

  “You travel with a sorceress,” the Bonecutter said. “Can she not unlock doors? Could the priestesses not be of assistance?”

  “I have relinquished my magic,” Caitriona said.

  The Bonecutter, for the first time in our short acquaintance, seemed somewhat nonplussed. “I hadn’t taken you for a fool. How does rejecting your gift punish the one who gave it to you?”

  Caitriona didn’t offer an answer. The Bonecutter’s dark curls gleamed as she shook her head and simply moved on.

  “The Hand of Glory?” she prompted.

  “It’s…,” I tried again, but couldn’t think of any other word to express the apprehension swarming in my gut. “It’s mine.”

  “Actually, it was mine to begin with,” the Bonecutter said. “Your guardian bought it from me years ago.”

  My hands gripped my elbows. I could feel the others’ gazes on me, waiting.

  “Tamsin?” Olwen queried into the long silence that followed.

  “I’m just…”

  I drew in a deep breath. Being an idiot, my mind finished.

  It was stupid—so stupid—to hesitate this way. We needed the Bonecutter to repair the vessel. We needed to know what memory Lord Death had tried to hide, and if it could help us destroy him.

  So why was my stomach in knots? Why couldn’t I slow my racing thoughts?

  “I see fear in your eyes,” the Bonecutter noted. “Curious, that. Are you concerned you may lose the One Vision and need him again? That you might return to who you were before?”

  The questions gave my fear a name, a face, a razored edge.

  “Impossible,” the Bonecutter said. “You have passed through the threshold of the One Vision, and you cannot go back. Trust that the person you were was left behind at that door. You will never be her again. Forward, little Lark.”

  You will never be useless or helpless again, my mind whispered. You will never be left behind.

  I rubbed my nose, swallowing. “Fine. You can have him.”

  I pulled Ignatius from my bag one last time, unraveling the purple silk to set him on the table. I didn’t understand the small swell of sadness as I stepped back. I’d been a hostage to this lard-dipped fiend, forced to rely on him to survive.

  The Bonecutter picked him up by the iron candlestick holder, looking distinctly unimpressed by that “improvement,” as well as the state of him.

  The bulging pale blue eye blinked open at the center of the palm, scanning the world around it until it landed on the Bonecutter. The eye widened, and then his whole being began to tremble—not with fear, but utter joy. Adoration.

  And just like that, my sadness evaporated.

  “Yeah, good riddance to you, too,” I muttered. “Thanks for the memories, you wick-brained creep.”

  A bell rang upstairs—then rang again, and again, and again, more insistent the longer it went unacknowledged.

  “Well?” the Bonecutter said, laying out her work instruments. “Is anyone going to get the door?”

  I exchanged a glance with the others. Neve shrugged. I didn’t see a reason not to either.

  Emrys stepped aside to allow the rest of us to pass, lingering in the dark until the Bonecutter said, “Come here, Dye. I’ve use for your delicate hands. Little Lark, take that bag up with you—yes, the one staring you in the eye.”

  I picked up the brown paper bag on the nearby shelf, surprised by its weight. The Bonecutter murmured something behind me and Emrys answered, his voice low and rumbling.

  At the sound of the pub door opening, I turned and raced up the stairs two at a time, and emerged from the workshop like a traveler returning from the Underworld.

  The woman seemed to unfurl from the night itself, her heavy steps and walking stick banging out a loud tattoo on the floor. With her riot of silver-streaked dark hair knotted into a lopsided mound on her head and the withered leaves caught on her shabby cloak, it looked as if she had come stumbling out of some ancient wood.

  Caitriona shut the door and locked it behind her, her hand hovering over the knife hidden under the sleeve of her shirt.

  “They’ve got what you asked for, Hem!” the Bonecutter called from downstairs.

  “The old bag can’t be bothered to come up and give it to me herself, I see,” the new arrival said, enjoying our reaction to the name old bag. She eyed each of us in turn, her face streaked with soil, as if she’d been gardening under the cold moonlight.

  At last, she turned toward the bar and shouted down, “The whole list?”

  “Yes, you withered bat,” the Bonecutter called back. “I even strung the protective wards from the temple on Delos for you, not that you’ll pay me for my time!”

  “That it?” the woman asked, crooking a finger at me.

  I handed it over, watching as she rummaged through the bag, nodding as she silently counted the items inside. Reaching into the inner pocket of her cloak, she retrieved a bundle of dried herbs. They had a sweet, floral scent, but I held them by the tips of their stems anyway, not letting any other part of the plants touch my skin or clothes. You never really knew with this kind of thing—it could just as easily be the starter for poison as a relaxing salt mix for the bath.

  “Are you a sorceress?” Neve asked, unable to keep the note of eagerness out of her voice.

  “Did the mystical aura give it away, or was it the wart on my nose?” the woman shot back. “Yes, child. Much to the Sistren’s chagrin, I was once called the Sorceress Hemlock.”

  I opened the archive of my mind and sorted through it until I found the pieces of her story and began to assemble them. Her swift, glorious rise among the ranks of sorceresses to vie for High Sorceress…and an even swifter inglorious fall.

  I snapped my finger, pointing at her. “The Mouse Shepherdess.”

  Neve whirled around, horrified. “Tamsin!”

  “It’s all right,” Hemlock said with a deep chuckle, folding the bag’s opening over. “I’ve been called worse for some of my ideas, and pushing for the Cunningfolk to have a voice on the Council of Sistren is one I take pride in. As good a reason as any to be expelled. The problem with being before your time is that you almost never get to see the moment you transform from fool to hero in others’ eyes.”

  “You were expelled from the Council?” Neve asked, shocked. “For that?”

  “Are you one of the Sistren?” Hemlock asked Neve. “You seem a bit too free-spirited for it, I must say. Unless they no longer seek to crush their maidens into the same mold.”

  “I’m self-taught,” Neve admitted.

  “Ah, no provable bloodline, or were they merely feeling especially callous that day?” Hemlock asked.

  Neve toyed with the end of one of her braids. “The first.”

  “Well, you’ll be better for it,” Hemlock told her, with surprising sympathy.

  “What do you mean?” Olwen asked, curious.

  “Only that her learning won’t be limited to what they wish her to know,” Hemlock said. “Breaking away from their rigid system of sigils allows for the Goddess to manifest more strongly in our intuition, allowing new depths of power to be discovered.”

  Neve’s expression sharpened with interest. I knew she was thinking of the light, and the way the sorceresses had reacted. “You really believe so?”

  “I know so,” Hemlock said. “That’s why the priestesses of Avalon called upon magic in whatever way innately spoke to them—forgive me, I’m telling you what you already know, aren’t I?”

  Olwen smiled sadly.

  “Even I get the occasional scrap of gossip thrown to me when it’s juicy enough,” Hemlock said. “Terrible trouble you’ve found yourselves in, my girls. Enough to win yourselves your own unflattering nickname.”

  It seemed we were all too tired and heartsick to explain ourselves again.

  “Lord Death is hunting sorceresses,” Neve said. “Wouldn’t it be safer to see if you can rejoin the others?”

  “I’ll be damned before I leave the house I’ve built with my own two hands,” Hemlock said. “I’ll fight to defend it with whatever breath I’ve left in my body.”

  She held up the bag from the Bonecutter to emphasize her point.

  “Then you’ll die,” Caitriona told her plainly. Leaning a hip against the bar, she crossed her arms over her chest.

  “So I will,” Hemlock said, turning toward the door. “Tell that fawn-faced ninny to burn my body when it happens.”

  “Don’t say that,” Neve said. “You can still go to your sisters. They need your help as much as you need theirs.”

  “It doesn’t work that way with the Sistren, though I wish it did,” Hemlock said. “I meant what I said before, about my body. You live as long as I have, and you’ll find it best not to leave anything unspoken.”

  “Please,” Neve tried again.

  Hemlock stood in the doorway. Cold wind swept in around her, but the goose bumps on my skin had nothing to do with its icy kiss. “Have heart, sweet sorceress, but say your goodbyes while you have the chance.”

  It occurred to me as I stood at the window and watched Hemlock’s shadowed form hurry down the path that Emrys still hadn’t come upstairs.

  As the minutes passed and we couldn’t hear a word of whatever they were speaking about, I became even more suspicious. He could be getting answers to questions we didn’t yet know to ask. He could be bartering for information, and we wouldn’t know until it was too late.

  Leaving Neve, Caitriona, and Olwen to find wherever Griflet was hiding and debate about where we’d stay that night, I took the opportunity to bring Hemlock’s payment back down into the workshop.

  I kept my footsteps light, the way Nash had once taught us, hoping to catch snippets of their conversation, but the last step announced my arrival with a squeal. The Bonecutter didn’t look up from her work at the table, but Emrys did, his gaze skimming over me. He stirred the contents of the small cauldron beside her, careful to alternate clockwise and counterclockwise strokes.

  In addition to the lamp, the Bonecutter had placed a large magnifying glass on a stand hovering over the remaining skull fragments. Using forceps and a remarkably steady hand, she picked up a needle-thin piece of bone and carefully placed it in one of the remaining holes of her puzzle. The jaw and the curve of the skull were starting to take shape.

  When she finally looked at me, it was through the purple lenses of her glasses. I held out the bundle of herbs by the twine holding them together. “How come she gets to pay you in weeds?”

  “Perhaps I like her better than you,” the Bonecutter said. “All right, Dye, I’ve finished with you. Take the others upstairs to the flat—if you must sleep here, I’ll not have you mucking about in my pub. And tell them if they want food, they’d best leave the money for it on the counter.”

  Emrys released the shard of bone he’d been holding, lowering the instrument onto the table slowly, as if waiting to make sure the piece would stay in place.

  I stepped forward at the exact wrong moment as he passed by, and a flutter of warmth moved down my arm as it brushed his.

  He stopped, drawing in a deep breath. “Agrimony, comfrey, and…violet.”

  “Show-off,” I grumbled.

  He left with a ghost of a smile.

  “You can set the herbs down over there.” The Bonecutter gestured behind her, and it took me more than a few moments to spot the table beneath a massive pile of rolled carpets, drapes, and tapestries.

  I circled the workshop toward her, eyeing the way she dipped the edges of a bone shard into a black pot of something. She paid me no mind as I leaned over her shoulder to investigate it. The ground seemed to vault up beneath my feet. I drew back.

  Silver.

  The liquid was a glistening, molten silver. Exactly like the cauldron I’d found in the tower of Avalon.

  “That’s…,” I began, my mouth dry. “That’s death magic.”

  “Of course,” the Bonecutter said, looking at me like I was the child. “Vessels are created using it, and they must be repaired with it. What did you think I would use?”

  It felt like there was a hive of bees in my chest. Like my tongue had swollen and turned to stone. The Bonecutter set her delicate instruments down, and her stool creaked as she turned toward me.

  I saw my frightened face in the lenses of her glasses. My stomach knotted.

  “Are you quite all right?” the Bonecutter asked. “Please sit before you crack your skull open and spill your brains onto the floor. I’ve only the patience to fix this one.”

  I shook my head, trying to catch my breath. “You work with him—you worship Lord Death—”

  “And you,” she answered, with an edge of irritation, “are being quite ridiculous.”

  She pulled a small, sweet-smelling sachet out of a drawer under the worktable and shoved it into my hand. “Take a deep breath, will you? Have a few, even.”

  I hesitated, but even without bringing it close to my face, the earthy scent was dulling the jagged edges of my fear and slowing the dizzying march of my thoughts. When I was sure I wasn’t being poisoned, I inhaled deeply, letting its scent cool the fires that burned in my lungs.

  “Better?” she asked.

  I felt humiliated that she’d seen me react this way. I was still shaking like a damn mouse beneath a cat’s paw.

  “Listen to me closely, little Lark,” the Bonecutter began. “I do not worship Lord Death. I am a servant to no king or god. Despite what he’d have you believe, he does not control access to all death magic everywhere, only Annwn’s supply of it.”

  “So he really is a god?” I asked, my voice tight.

  “No, but something like it,” the Bonecutter said. “He’s one of the Firstborn, the earliest race created by the Goddess. Immortal, and bloody difficult to kill, but not entirely impervious to death.”

  “I’ve never heard of the Firstborn before,” I said, feeling calmer as my mind finally focused.

  “You have, though likely by a different name,” the Bonecutter said. Her voice, so melodic, was oddly suited to telling stories. “Some call them the Tuatha dé Danann, the Aes Sídhe, or, in this part of the isles, the Tylwyth Teg. I’ve even heard them called the Gentry by the especially superstitious.”

  “Aren’t those all different kinds of fairies?” I asked.

  “You can call them fairies, I suppose. They once ruled over all of the Fair Folk,” the Bonecutter said. “They were given a special piece of the Goddess’s magic to aid them. Yet they left our world to create their own—the Summerland—long before the tides of beliefs changed and hostility toward magic grew.”

  “Right.” I knew of that Otherland, at least, and I already knew why Lord Death hadn’t joined them there. “Lord Death was forced to rule Annwn as punishment for something—do you know what that was?”

  “I haven’t the slightest clue,” the Bonecutter said, though that seemed impossible to me. “But if you’re intent on understanding death magic, you must first understand that there is magic in all our souls. That is our spark of life. If nothing interferes with it, that spark will continue from one lifetime to the next, persisting. But the souls brought to Annwn are different—twisted, cruel, corrupted by darkness long before they arrive.”

  “And bringing them to Annwn takes them out of a cycle of reincarnation in our world,” I finished.

  “Yes, but they’re brought there to serve another purpose as well,” the Bonecutter continued. “When you call on death magic, you sap that power from the wicked dead—their souls. As long as those malevolent souls exist in a world, as they do in ours, anyone can call on death magic, provided they know the rituals involved.”