Page 86

When I woke the next morning, she was gone. The hand was gone, too.

I staggered to my feet. Iached, my entire body tense, my bones flowing with fire. The kitchen was stifling hot. The lamps and the candles had long since died; the fire in the hearth smoldered.

I crept down the hall. Nessie lay curled in my bed, her severed arm held carefully out. I inched my way forward, looking at her skin for signs of infection, feeling her forehead for fever. Her skin was clammy, but she was going to be okay.

She might never forgive me, but she was going to be okay.

I lay down in the bed beside her. Without thinking, I reached my hand toward hers, but I stopped before my fingers brushed her wound.

•••

When I woke the next morning, I went to my parents’ room.

I opened the book I’d found earlier—the old alchemy text—and laid it beside the one Master Ostrum had given me. Wellebourne’sjournal was, at its heart, instructional. Step by step, in clear, simple terms, it outlined the journey to become a necromancer. The first step I already knew:Create an iron crucible, formed of blood and bone and ash, melded together through sacrifice.

Sacrifice was described in Papa’s book as well. In fact, it seemed to be a central theme. “Should the alchemist determine to cross the god-placed boundaries twixt life and death,” the book warned, “his very soul may prove to be the price paid.” But just in case the reader was willing to be such a heathen, the book suggested a chant, one that mentioned both the power needed and the willing trade for it. There was no chant in Wellebourne’s book, just runes that had to be drawn prior to developing the iron crucible.

Papa’s book warned of how addictive necromancy could be. “Once a crucible is made,” it said, “the necromancer’s voracious need for death will be all-consuming.” I shuddered, remembering the strange hunger that awoke within me the first time I danced too close to Death. “Should the necromancer grow powerful enough to form a reliquary and become a lich, he will be invincible in the mortal realms.”

I forced myself to analyze both texts, trying to find some connection, some knowledge I’d not been aware of, something. Anything. The most I found was in Wellebourne’s book, but while it spoke of necromancer curses, it wasn’t specific to the plague. My heart sank as I read, “There are ways to free the undead, should the necromancer be weak. But even if the necromancer’s crucible is destroyed, a curse will linger as long as the necromancer lives.”

Master Ostrum’s book also included detailed charts and diagrams. I opened to one of a crucible cage, but immediately closed the book in disgust. I’d held Bennum Wellebourne’s crucible cage in Master Ostrum’s office, but now the image reminded me too sharply of my sister and what she had lost. I thought of her severed hand resting on the dining room table my mother used to roll biscuits on.

“Ned?”

I shoved the books under Papa’s bed and turned around. Nessie stood in the doorway, her silhouette blacked out against the light in the hall.

“What are you doing up?” I said.

“I missed you.”

She had the quilt wrapped around her.

“Go back to bed.” I tried to make my voice kind, but it was strained with worry. And guilt. Reading that book made me feel as if she’d caught me doing something deeply wrong.

Instead of going back to her room, Nessie sat down on Mama and Papa’s bed. “Tell me about the city,” she said.

“I told you everything in my letters.”

She smiled at me, a weak little thing that barely curved her lips. “I want to know more. How did itfeelto be there?”

I shrugged. My fingers inched near the books under the bed. I needed to read more. Even if it was necromancy, even if it was forbidden...

“Nessie, I need to work,” I said.

Her body seemed to shrink. “I want to hear about your life there,” she said, her voice soft. “About the school and Grey and alchemy and...”

Her voice trailed off. She could tell she didn’t have my attention. I looked up at her, guilt swimming inside me. “I want to helpyou,” I said. “I need to read more... Maybe there’s a way I can help you feel better. It... it must hurt.” My eyes dropped to her arm, hidden beneath the quilt.

“I understand,” she said, and she left the room. I watched her go. Guilt crept through me, but I knew there would be time enough to tell Ernesta my stories later. When she was fully recovered and our parents were buried and we were freed from this house. I’d take her toNorthface Harbor with me. She wouldn’t need my stories; she’d make her own.

I retrieved the books from under the bed, skimming the pages for anything, anything at all that I could use.

•••

I fell asleep on the floor, my body curled around the books like a pillow.

•••