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Lydia fell into another fit of laughter as she pulled open the door of a little flower shop with a green awning that bore the name Shipton Flowers.

The store was small and unassuming, and had existed in this exact location for longer than anyone could remember.

The smell alone—freshly cut stems, dust, the sickly sweet perfume of moldering rose petals—filled Lydia with a sense of familiar nostalgia every time she crossed the threshold.

Inside was cool and dark, with tidy rows of tin buckets bursting with fragrant white lilies, enormous yellow sunflowers, and pillowy garden roses in shades of pink, yellow, and violet.

Spools of brightly colored ribbon hung along one wall, while jumbled rows of blue and green glass vases shone like jewels on the other.

The shopkeeper looked up as they entered.

“Miss Polk.” She gave Kitty a wry look through her spectacles. “Miss Fraser.”

Kitty dropped her glamour and offered a playful curtsy. “Judith. The hydrangeas look lovely today.”

“Thank you, Miss Fraser.”

They walked to the back of the shop, where the sweet smell of flowers gave way to the musty odor of trampled leaves and standing water, through the cluttered workroom, and past buckets, mops, and brooms to stand before a chipped green door.

The door looked in every way like a storage closet, save for the faded white rose painted on its center, surrounded by thorns—forever locked, for all but a select few.

Lydia laid her left hand on the rose, and the door swung open easily.

Beyond the green door, the full grandeur of the academy sprawled before them.

Gleaming white marble floors threaded with gold stretched far beyond the boundaries of the squat, brown brick building they had entered just moments ago.

Elder witches dressed in modern, jewel-toned fashions went about their business, while academy students in their cobalt-blue uniforms traveled in gaggles of threes and fours, gossiping and laughing.

Two matching spiral staircases flanked the great hall, intricately carved from gleaming ebony wood like the wings of an enormous black bird, soaring up toward a high domed ceiling, which glowed with stained glass depictions of beasts, flowers, stars and moons, and scenes of beautiful women caught performing heroic acts and feats of magic.

It had taken Lydia most of her first year at the academy to determine that it was in fact the shabby exterior of the building that wore the glamour, rather than the opulent interior.

Kitty bid Lydia a quick goodbye and bounded up the spiral stairs with her parcels, nearly colliding with a trio of young teachers as she went.

Lydia watched her go, then continued making her way across the great hall until she reached another door, this one jet black and bearing a raised carving of a raven.

She laid her hand on the carving, and the door opened.

The grand mistress’s personal study was a circular room lined with books stacked several stories high.

Wrought iron catwalks lined the perimeter like scaffolding, and Persian carpets in shades of burgundy and gold covered the floors.

A single, enormous arched window flooded the room with a hazy glow, giving the study a dreamy, enchanted feeling.

In the center of the room, two lush green velvet sofas faced one another, and between them, an ornately carved table held a statue of the goddess Diana—the huntress—bow in hand, a small deer by her side.

Isadora was standing at the window, wreathed in a halo of rosy light. She turned when Lydia entered, and crossed the room to greet her with a kiss on each cheek. “How is your mother?” she asked.

“She’s well, Grand Mistress, thank you for asking.

” Lydia always felt uncomfortable whenever Isadora asked after her mother.

Isadora seemed to have no strong feelings about the woman either way, yet Evelyn Polk harbored a profound resentment toward Isadora Goode, which came out anytime her name was spoken.

They sat, and Lydia felt herself being swallowed up by the plush green sofa. Isadora lit a black cigarette, and a rich, floral perfume filled the air.

“I wanted to speak with you before this evening’s ritual, to ensure you are adequately prepared,” Isadora said. “Our success is essential to the war effort. I will require your complete focus.”

Lydia hesitated. She’d been a part of Project Diana since she was still just a student, using her skill as a projectionist to track magical objects before they could fall into Nazi hands.

Hitler and his army of sycophants had shown a troubling interest in the occult for some time now, twisting whatever lore best suited their needs, gathering up whatever arcane objects caught their fancy and stashing them in mines and castles all over Europe.

Most were harmless, shiny bric-a-brac with no real magic.

Every once in a while, however, Hitler’s treasure hunters would stumble upon something with real power.

This was where Project Diana would step in.

Hunting , Isadora called it. Lydia’s projection would venture out in search of the artifact, gathering clues from the object’s surroundings to determine where it might be hidden.

Then it was a simple matter of sending an academy Traveler to snatch up whatever tome or relic the Nazis were targeting and hiding it away, safe and sound within the walls of the academy.

Lydia usually liked to know as much as she could about the artifacts she tracked, but everything about that evening’s ritual had been kept a closely guarded secret.

Strange, as Isadora usually kept her in the closest confidence.

“I’m afraid I haven’t yet been briefed, Grand Mistress,” Lydia said carefully.

Isadora exhaled a plume of smoke, considering her apprentice. “It is essential that you do not discuss what I’m about to tell you with anyone. Do you understand?”

Lydia nodded, but Isadora’s tone made her uneasy.

“You’ll be locating a grimoire. People have called it by different names over the centuries, but the one that seems to have stuck is Grimorium Bellum .

Roughly translated, The Book of War . The book’s exact contents have long been a closely guarded secret, one that I’m afraid has become lost over time, although theories persist—spells to rain down fire, shudder the earth.

Spells to bring about famine, plague, madness.

Some even say it can call forth an army of spectral assassins, capable of razing entire civilizations to the ground.

” She examined the glowing end of her cigarette, watching the smoke rise in a single, twisting column.

“Rumor and speculation, all. The only thing we do know for certain is that wherever the book goes, death inevitably follows.”

Isadora stopped and held Lydia in her gaze for what felt like a very long time. “I’m sure you can imagine what the Nazis would do if they were to find such a weapon.” It began to rain, droplets splashing against the windowpane.

Yes. Lydia could imagine. She’d seen the newsreels and heard the madman speak.

He’d already invaded Poland, Denmark, Norway, and France, only to name a few.

It seemed he wouldn’t rest until he held the whole of the world in his fist. His Luftwaffe had already killed thousands of innocent Britons in the Blitz, leaving all of England battered, scarred, and traumatized.

And then there were the camps—Jews, Roma, homosexuals, men, women, children, all swept out of the cities and the ghettos, carted away like cattle as part of the Nazis’ monstrous mass extermination effort.

She’d heard it from the Seers at the academy, who wandered listless and weeping after the things they’d witnessed in their visions.

Millicent Corey lived just down the hall from her in the teachers’ residences.

She’d woken screaming one night and didn’t stop for hours, no matter how they’d tried to soothe her, until Lydia had finally gone to the infirmary to get her something to help her sleep.

“Yes, Grand Mistress. I can imagine.” Lydia’s voice did not betray the flush of horror she felt, remembering the things Millicent described.

Isadora leaned forward, and Lydia thought she saw Isadora’s black cigarette tremble slightly between her fingertips.

“Then I don’t need to tell you how important it is that the Nazis do not succeed in finding that book.”

Very far away, Lydia heard what might have been thunder, or the roar of an airplane engine. Isadora’s stoic demeanor returned, and when she spoke again, it was with her usual businesslike tone.

“Our intelligence tells us that the Nazis have been recruiting. Young women, specifically. Many of them orphaned, or otherwise vulnerable. All of them from magical families.”

Lydia felt her blood turn icy. “You think they’re forming a coven?”

Isadora exhaled, perfuming the air with smoke.

“I do. However, many on the council disagree with my assessment.” Isadora paused for a moment.

“The truth is, the council has lost its appetite for the war effort. They never had much of one to begin with, but I managed to force their hand on the matter three years ago. Now, well…” She trailed off, her gaze fixed on something far away.

“I think many of them find it easier to pretend the threat does not exist than to admit that it does and then have to face it.”

Lydia watched Isadora’s face, afraid to speak or even breathe.

After a moment, Isadora looked at Lydia, her gaze steely once more.

“Dark magic like what’s found in the Grimorium Bellum is extremely taxing to perform.

Magic like that requires a full coven, and an auspicious time.

The winter solstice is in ten weeks. Whatever the Nazis are planning, I expect they will attempt it then.

Our spies believe the Nazis are close to finding the book. I’m asking you to find it first.”

Lydia felt something hardening inside her, crystallizing into a single-minded determination. “How will I track it?”

Isadora put out her first cigarette and lit a second.

“The book was in the antiquities collection at the Louvre, before the Nazis invaded Paris three years ago. Just before the invasion, the most valuable pieces were packed up and taken to Chateau de Chambord for safekeeping. Many of the pieces have been moved several times since then, scattered across the French countryside in the hopes of keeping them out of Nazi hands. We have reliable intelligence that the Grimorium Bellum was sent to Chateau de Laurier in Dordogne. One of our agents was deployed last week to retrieve it, but she was intercepted and forced to flee. By the time she returned, the book had already been moved.”

“Intercepted by whom? The Nazis?”

“The curator ,” Isadora said, with obvious irritation.

“However, our agent had the book in her hands before she was stopped, and was able to get away with a small piece of one of the pages. The agent will be joining us in the ritual, and you will have her energy to work from, as well as the piece she tore from the book.”

Lydia nodded. It would be enough. More than enough. “Who is the agent?”

Isadora stabbed out her cigarette, and sighed.