Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson Read Free Book Online Page A

thin, scratchy blanket in an unfamiliar bed. Not a bed, a cot . Her toes were cold; her feet stuck off the end. The stone wall she faced didn’tbelong to her room, and Finch and Hargrove’s argument didn’t make any sense.
    “The Director’s keys were missing from her key ring,” Finchgrowled, “and we found them at the entrance to the vault. Someone took them. Scrivener was the only one there. The library had been secured for the evening—no one else could have gotten inside.”
    “I’m certain there’s another explanation.” She had never heard Hargrove so upset, even after the booklouse incident. Sunk halfway into a dream, she envisioned him gesticulating the way he did during hislectures, his fragile, age-spotted hands waving through the air as though he were conducting an orchestra. “We must investigate,” he said, “speak to Scrivener, employ logic to understand what happened last night.”
    “I’ve already sent a report to the Magisterium. A priceless grimoire has been destroyed, and the sorcerers will want someone to answer for it. They’ll get the truth from her, one wayor another.”
    A long silence followed. “Please, I beg you to reconsider.” Hargrove’s voice sounded muffled, as if he had moved off, intimidated into backing away. “The Director trusted Scrivener, even loved her. We both know she wasn’t one for sentiment. Surely that must count for something.”
    “It does. It tells me that the Director loved the wrong person, and the mistake killed her. You’re dismissed,Hargrove.”
    “Warden Finch—”
    “Director,” Finch corrected. “If you’ve forgotten your place, Hargrove, I’m sure I can find you a new one.”
    Why is Finch calling himself the Director?
    Elisabeth’s memory flooded back as she fought her wayawake. Ashes. Bells. Wardens surrounding her with their swords drawn, Finch emerging from the group to seize her arm. He had dragged her downstairs and thrown herin this cell. She recalled the rage that had twisted his pockmarked face in the torchlight. And she remembered the wetness that had shone on his cheeks when he turned away.
    At once, she regretted waking. Every inch of her body ached. Bruises throbbed on her arms and back, and whenever she breathed in, her ribs stabbed her lungs. But far worse than the pain was the rush of understanding that followed.
    He blames me for what happened. She hadn’t expected to be hailed as a hero—but this? And if he’s the Director now . . .
    Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced herself to sit up. She clutched the coarse blanket to her chest, finding that she was still dressed in her nightgown, crusted stiff with ink and stained with her own blood. Looking around, she found no sign of Hargrove, but Finch stoodoutside the bars of the cell door. Hard lines etched his features as he gazed down the corridor. A single torch blazed on the wall behind him, throwing his long, threatening shadow into the cell. She struggled to make sense of her final memory from last night. Why had his face been wet? It hadn’t started raining.
    The truth dawned on her. “You were in love with the Director,” she realized aloud.
    Her voice was little more than a thin scratching, but Finch swung around as though she’d hurled an insult. “Shut your mouth, girl.”
    “Please,” she insisted. “I loved her, too. You must listen to me.” The words came tumbling out as though a dam had broken inside her. “Someone else released the Book of Eyes last night. I came downstairs, and . . .”
    As she began recounting the story in fits andstarts, Finch’s hand stole toward the hilt of his sword. He squeezed the leather grip until it creaked. Elisabeth stammered to a halt.
    “Always telling tales,” he said. His eyes shone like black beetles in the torchlight. “Always causing trouble. You expect me to believe you, after all the rules you’ve broken?”
    “I’m telling the truth,” she said, willing him to see the honesty on her