A week later, we arrive at the party dressed in our best. Lyssa wears a sapphire-blue gown that had cost me a month's wages (though she doesn't know this). I wear the same plain black suit I wore to our parents' funeral. That was three years ago, but it still fits, and it's the only suit I own.

I might be drab, but Lyssa is stunning, and as we mount the marble steps to the grand entrance, my stomach clenches with dread. The Spellwright boys aren't the only sharks in these waters.

"Do me a favor, 'kay?" I whisper as we approach the dour-faced man guarding the door. "If any old dudes ask if they can 'show you something' in another room, don't go."

She pokes me in the ribs. "Tell yourself that. You're the clueless one."

She has a point, and she doesn't know the half of it.

I hold out the invitation and the doorman takes it. He studies it with suspicion for a moment, looking from Lyssa to me, but then he sets it aside and waves us through.

Once we're in, I see the reason for his misgivings. Lyssa fits in fine, but I look very much like I've worn a funeral suit to a party.

The men are as vibrantly dressed as the women, in rainbows of silk and satin, iridescent and metallic threads, and jewels that sparkle at wrist, throat, and ear.

It's a garish display of wealth and social standing, of which I have neither.

Which is fitting, I suppose, since it's largely the Spellwright's fault that this is true.

Not that they'd remember. It might have meant everything to Lyss and me, but it was just business to them.

The Spellwrights are Relic dealers, and that's what they're auctioning tonight under the guise of 'charity.'

A Crafter's Sign can be any object used to Create. My grandmother's was a wooden spoon, my mother's a violin, and my father's a fountain pen. Lyssa's is an ivory crochet hook she found in an antique store while shopping with our mom. In other words, a Sign can be anything that resonates with the Crafter's magic and allows them to channel it into spells.

Then, when a Crafter dies, their Sign becomes a Relic.

Relics are rare and valuable, and carry the trace of their former owner's power, making them primary ingredients in many high-level spells. Some sell for fortunes, and given that many Crafters are worth more dead than alive, the sale of Relics is highly regulated.

Relics also symbolize a family's status and power, and act as strong protective charms. Most families keep their Relics for this reason—if they can afford to.

After our parents died, it quickly became clear that Lyssa and I could not so afford, and I'd arranged to have their Relics sold by the only registered dealers in Harbor City: the Spellwrights.

Trusting and naive, I'd signed whatever papers the lawyers put in front of me, and unwittingly handed over most of our share of the profits. In the end, we'd gotten almost nothing while the Spellwrights had made, as they say, a killing.

I'd been ashamed, and kept most of it from Lyssa. She knows I sold the Relics and that we didn't get much; she doesn't know it's because I'm a fool.

She also doesn't know the other reason I hate the Spellwrights, which I'd only learned after they'd sold our Relics: the thing that killed our parents—a curse-removal gone awry—had been a Spellwright job.

✧✧✧

At least Lyssa is having fun.

She's popular and outgoing, and a few of her friends from school are here with their parents: Sadie Green, whose family talent lies with herbs and growing things, and the Weaver twins, who excel at any magic involving yarn or thread. They coo with admiration as Lyssa shows them a piece of lace she'd Crafted with her Sign, and into which she'd woven a minor spell of attraction.

Meanwhile, I grab a drink from a tray and entertain myself by perusing the 'goods' up for sale. I'm not really interested, but it's a way to avoid attention and distract myself from my rising anxiety. It surges as I accidentally focus on it, and I finger the little pill in my pocket, just to reassure myself it's there.

It's not magic, or anything: just a basic pharmaceutical prescribed to help me manage my panic attacks, and I only take them when I know I won't be able to keep my symptoms hidden otherwise. I knew I'd be triggered tonight by so many people, and by the setting, and by being in the Spellwrights' home, so I'd brought one along.

The last thing I want is to ruin Lyssa's evening by fainting and making a scene.

Taking a deep breath, I turn my attention to the exhibited Relics and do my best to ignore the tightness in my chest.

It's a 'silent' auction, and the Relics are displayed in glass cases around the shadowed edges of the enormous, colonnaded room. Those interested in buying can examine them and write a bid in a little book beside each. At midnight, the books will be closed, and the winning bids announced.

Meanwhile, there's music, dancing, entertainment, and a lavish variety of fancy food and drinks.

As I start my second round of the room, I realize I can't keep up the pretext of interest much longer before it becomes obvious I've no intention of placing a bid. I stop before a compass—the kind used to draw circles—and ponder the Crafter who once held it as a Sign. A Mason, maybe, or a Wayfinder. It's a plain thing: the sort of basic instrument a student might use. A glance at the bids shows it's not drawing much attention.

I wonder if its owner had loved it, or been disappointed to receive such a Sign.

The Sign chooses the Crafter, and young Crafters dream of being chosen by impressive Signs. I'd once imagined mine would be an instrument like my mother's—a flute, maybe—but as time passed, I became less picky.

Now I thought that anything, really, would be better than nothing at all.

"Poor bastard. Imagine being stuck with that your whole life."

A hand brushes my arm as a voice speaks at my back, and I startle, slopping half my drink down my front.

"Oh, dear!" The speaker produces a cloth—a napkin from the buffet, I guess—and hands it to me while taking my glass. "I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you."

I dab at myself (my dress shirt is nothing special, but it's my only dress shirt) while muttering a string of meaningless assurances.

Eventually, I realize that the speaker, whom I judge to be a man by his smooth, tenor tones, has said nothing for half a minute, and look up to find myself face to face with one of the Spellwright brothers.

I know their names—Aurelio, Marcus, and Jaxon—but I'm not sure which is which. This one is tall and trim, with olive-toned skin, curling brown hair, and hazel eyes. He has thick, even, upswept brows, a straight nose, and cheekbones sharp enough to have shadows of their own.

He smiles at me, revealing perfect teeth.

"Ah, you must be the rare and elusive Lovecraft," he says. "No other lineage has such... arresting eyes. Is it true your Ancestor was an incubus?"

Blood rises to my face and my heart accelerates, but at least my anger gives me momentary strength. I hate that rumor.

"Not as far as I'm aware," I reply coolly, continuing to dab at my shirt.

"What's your name?" he asks, ignoring my tone.

I answer without looking up from my task. I've no interest in making friends with a Spellwright. "Sylas. What's yours?"

When he doesn't answer, I finally look up at him. He's watching me with raised brows and a noticeable smirk, and I'd like to punch the smug look right off his face.

"Marcus," he answers. "The 'Spellwright' part you've guessed."

Clinging to my dignity, I return my attention to my wet shirt. "Is there a washroom in this place?"

His amusement intensifies, as does my alarm, as he steps closer, forcing me to retreat until my back hits the side of the display case.

"I've been watching you, Sylas," he says, his tone soft and dangerous, "and it's clear you're not one of this sad lot." He jerks his head over his shoulder at the chaotic, ebullient crowd. "So, who sent you, little spy? The Killjoys? The Weatherbys?"

He shifts closer still and rests his hand on the side of my waist, leaning to speak in my ear.

"You can tell me. I don't give a shit about this filth. I'd like to teach my parents a lesson or two myself. I could help you, even, for a price. What do you say? There are plenty of empty rooms down here."

His hand slides lower, and as his breath wafts hot against my skin, I let out a reflexive yelp and shove him away from me.

He doesn't budge, instead grabbing my arms in a painfully hard grip and holding me close.

"Listen here, pretty one," he hisses through a smile. "You can do as I say, and give me what I want, or I can tell my parents who and what you are, and—"

"Marcus!"

The new voice snaps with authority and power, and Marcus releases me.

Behind him, emerging from the shadow of a great pillar, is another Spellwright: similar in shape and appearance, but broader in the shoulders and chest, and with closely cropped hair.

"Stay out of this, Jax," Marcus hisses. "Mind your own business, for once."

"I will, as long as your business doesn't involve harassing our guests."

"He's not a guest. He's a—"

I shove him again, as hard as I can, and then dash for the nearest door. My panic has won, and if I don't get away and find somewhere to hide, I'm going to make more a fool of myself than I already have.

Stumbling down a dimly lit hallway, I try the first door I come across, slip through, shut it at my back, and find myself in a small library. There are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, antique globes on stands, a large brass telescope, and glass-fronted 'cabinets of curiosities,' straight out of some nineteenth-century gentleman's country estate.

I stop, breathless and dizzy, collapse into the nearest upholstered chair and shut my eyes. To my immense relief, no one follows me, and after a moment, the ringing in my ears subsides. Several minutes later, my pulse slows and my self-possession returns.

Then my eyes snap open again, and I realize I need to find Lyssa, make up some convincing excuse to leave, and get us the hell out of here.

Rising, I take a step towards the door when a small glowing light catches my eye.

That there would be a light in this room is not so strange.

This one, though, is silver and glimmering, and coming from a shelf, and it pulls me towards it with the gravity of a star.

My pulse spikes again and a new layer of sweat breaks out over my skin.

This is what it's like when a Crafter finds their Sign; and yet as much as I want to find mine, the last place I'd want to find it is here.

With a feeling of mounting dread, I approach.

The glimmering object is a slim, silver pen resting on a claw-footed stand. Below it, a gold plaque identifies it as 'Relic of Griffin Spellwright, Ancestor of the Spellwright Line.'

I breathe a sigh of unexpected relief.

A Relic can never serve as another Crafter's Sign, so this one, obviously, isn't mine.

Still, it pulls me like the moon pulls the tide, and I can't resist.

I open the cabinet, reach within, and hesitate with my fingers a fraction above the pen; then I lift it from its holder and grasp it in my hand.

Nothing happens.

I laugh at myself: an unsteady, breathless sound.

My hand trembles as I reach to put it back. Then, before I can release it, a burst of power like a bolt of lightning strikes me through the heart.

Blinded by pain and pierced by a sudden, awful certainty, I fall into the dark.