Papa wasn’t amused. But he relented, feeling the urgent pull of the afternoon, the slant of sunlight as it began to shift across the floor. I wouldn’t have much time to fetch the nightmare. So he uttered a spell in his storytelling voice, smooth and polished like sanded oak. And the book of nightmares materialized. It had been sitting on the map of Hereswith, in the center of my father’s desk, charmed invisible.

Clever, I thought. All these years, I had believed my father had simply hidden the prized ledger in a secret nook.

I took it reverently, surprised by how heavy it was. Seven magicians had kept detailed dream recordings before Papa had come to Hereswith, and I had always hoped to become the ninth magician, after my father retired. But I felt the weight of those inked dreams of people now dead and buried. I felt them as if I had embraced a millstone.

I met Papa’s gaze, and he saw my shock. I hadn’t realized it until now. The weight he carried as the town’s magician. And suddenly . . . I didn’t know if I was strong enough to bear it.

“Come here, daughter,” he whispered.

I crossed the room, the book heavy in my arms, and sat on the edge of his bed. I could feel the feverish heat rolling off him in waves, and it made me worry.

“I’ve taught you all that I know,” he said. “You’ll do just fine recording this dream, as long as you stick to the rules and predetermined spells.” He paused to study me with squinted eyes. “You know, it’s not a bad thing to be fearful every now and then. The fear reminds you of limits, of what lines you should not cross. Of the doors you shouldn’t open.”

“Hmm.”

“And what does that sound mean?”

I smiled. My dimples I had stolen from my mother, and I knew my father softened at the sight. “It means I hear you, Papa.”

“Hear but do not heed?” he countered, but he was teasing. “Regardless, it’s time for you to do a visitation on your own. Go to the Fieldings and come directly home. If you’re not back before dusk, I will come searching for you. And we both don’t want that.”

“I will return with time to spare,” I said, rising from the bed. “And if you’re not feeling well by nightfall, then I can—”

“I will be more than fine when the new moon rises,” Papa growled. “Tell Imonie to set me a place at the dinner table. We’ll eat before we go, as we always do.”

There was no sense in arguing with him, no sense in telling him that he might be more of a burden, that his fever would make him and his enchantments weak and frail.

“Drink your tea,” I told him, and slipped from his bedroom.