Connor should have made Adne turn the box over to the Scribes, but he hadn’t pressed the issue. Though she knew he’d left her alone about it out of respect, sometimes Adne wished he would confront her and push her to rid herself of the macabre collection. Her obsession with the amulet, rings, and finger bone tucked into the little box was unsettling and often creeped her out. And yet she couldn’t bring herself to part with the strange assortment of objects.
She’d even taken to wearing the amulet under her clothing, only taking it off when she went to bed. If Connor saw the necklace, he’d ask questions for which Adne couldn’t begin to fathom answers.
Adne’s hand slipped beneath her collar. She wrapped her fingers around the gold chain from which the amulet hung. From the moment she’d set eyes on the bloodred stone, Adne had been consumed by the sense that it belonged to her. An impossibility, of course—since this piece of jewelry had been crafted centuries before Adne’s birth.
The pull of the stone on Adne’s being, however, was undeniable. Powerful as the feeling was, Adne feared it. And she was determined to discover its source.
Releasing the chain, Adne pulled several books from the shelf, set them on the floor, and knelt beside them. Handling the ancient bindings and delicate pages with care, Adne leafed through each book, scanning the pages and hoping that a word or phrase would jump out at her. It wasn’t the most practical means of research, but Adne didn’t know what else to do. All she had to go on was that her restless nights were linked to the Keepers’ history. And that history was documented in these volumes.
The night wore on and Adne’s eyes grew strained from hours of staring at page after page of esoteric writings, much of which was barely legible. How did the Scribes bear hour after hour, day upon day of this tedium?
When she knew dawn had to be soon approaching, Adne decided she’d have to abandon her mission. At least for tonight.
She returned three of the books to their shelf. When she lifted the third, something fluttered out from within the pages. Folded, yellowing sheafs of paper landed gently on the floor.
Adne wondered how she could have missed this. Were there pages stuck together that she skipped?
Setting the book on the shelf, Adne bent down and picked up the folded pages. They crackled under her fingers and she winced for fear that they would break apart or tear.
Turning to one of the Scribes’ desks that had been brought to the drawing room, Adne carefully smoothed the pages along the wooden surface.
It appeared to be a hand-drawn family tree, which was intriguing enough, but what stole Adne’s breath was the inscription at the top of the page.
Sanguine et igne nascimur
Adne reached for her necklace, pulling out the amulet to gaze at the inscription on the back of the stone.
Sanguine et igne nascimur
With her heart tittering against her ribs, Adne stared at the written and inscribed words. This was the link she’d been seeking.
Something in the room stirred and Adne gasped, jumping back from the desk.
But the room appeared to be empty. She was alone.
Nevertheless, Adne stayed very still. When she was certain her imagination had gotten the best of her, she heard it again. Adne shivered at the softness of the sound. It must have been a draft. Old estates like this one always had drafts, didn’t they?
The barest breath of a cool wind stroked the back of her neck. She didn’t want to admit that she’d heard something more.
Ariadne.
It came again. Still quiet, but more distinct. An accompanying chill slid over Adne’s shoulders.
Ariadne.
Adne took the papers from the desk and carefully folded them, tucking them into her coat. Considering that the pages had been stashed in a book, unnoticed thus far by the Scribes, Adne wasn’t worried about anyone missing them. She’d return them, of course, but not until she had a better sense of what they were.
She needed to get out of there. The sun would come up soon and the Scribes woudn’t be far behind. She reached for her skeins.
I need you.
Her hands paused beside her hips.
Come to me.
Fingers trembling, Adne drew the skeins from her leather belt.
Come.
Cold that had been making her limbs shake took hold of her bones, but instead of weakening her, the icy sensation began to push away her fear. Her cooling blood felt like a ward against looming danger. The frostiness of her lips and the misting of her breath seemed to serve as a shield.
Without knowing what prompted the thought, Adne mused: A heart encased in ice can’t be broken.
Adne began to weave. Her movements were smooth, unbroken. A silvery door took shape in the drawing room, casting pools of ghostly light on the shelves. When the portal stood open, Adne gazed through it. Snow covered the ground, its soft sheen enhanced by the predawn light.
All was still.
Come. Now.
Adne stepped through the portal, passing out of the mansion and into Rowan Estate’s garden. Snow crunched beneath Adne’s boots. The winter night caused no chill, despite the light fabric of her coat. She felt oddly warm, and the source of her body heat seemed to be radiating from the place where the amulet rested against her sternum.
A small object that lay in the snow caught Adne’s eye. She closed the portal and bent to examine it more closely.
The rosebud peeked through the snowdrift, barely discernible given that the flower’s white hue camouflaged it quite well.
Adne frowned at the rose. “What are you doing here?”
The only possible explanation was that someone had dropped the rose. But why would anyone have been carrying a rosebud through Rowan Estate’s garden? Stranger still, the rose’s presence didn’t trouble Adne so much as a nagging sense that it was the wrong color.
White and still, nearly invisible in the snow, the rose seemed drained of life.
Bloodless.
In blood and fire we are born.
Adne dropped to her knees, reached into her shirt, and withdrew the amulet. Clasping the warm stone in her left hand, Adne stretched her right hand out to hover just above the rose, her palm facing down.
“Sanguine et igne nascimur.”
The snow beneath the tight rosebud began to stir. The white rose pushed up toward Adne’s palm, and she saw that the flower hadn’t been cast aside at all. The rose still clung to its bush, which now poked up through the snow. The dark, twisting wood of the rosebush snaked over the snow, its thick, rope-like branches broken by sharp thorns. The branches curved up and over the white bud.