“Jess?” Santi said. “I’d like very much to shoot this man, but he’s your blood. You decide.”

“Don’t.” His heart was pounding and he felt sick to his stomach. The air still smelled of that faint trace of spices and old books that were so much a part of his childhood, but overlaying them now was the muffling scent of smoke. London was burning. So was his past. “What do you want from us, Callum?”

“Callum, now, is it?” Two years ago, his father’s glare would have cowed him. Not today. He met it with one of his own.

“It is,” Jess said. “I’m not going to call you Father anymore. Be grateful I don’t call you worse.” He turned to Santi and Wolfe. “You could kill them, maybe a few of the men, but they’ll get some of us, too. It’s not worth it.”

It took a long, tense moment, but their guns went down. So, unwillingly, did Glain’s.

“Good,” Callum Brightwell said. “Glad we sorted out our particulars. Come with us. We need the help of a Scholar.”

It was a long ride in an uncomfortable freight wagon to St. Paul’s, and while they rattled around inside the hard, empty space, Brightwell explained what he wanted. It was ominous and daring, and Jess could unwillingly agree that it might well be the chance of any self-respecting smuggler’s lifetime.

St. Paul’s Serapeum had long been an unattainable target, though it contained some of the rarest, choicest volumes on display. But in the growing chaos, with the High Garda fanning out across the city searching for Jess and his friends, it was as vulnerable as it would ever be.

“It’ll take a Scholar’s robes to get us past the Garda barricades,” Brightwell explained. “And a bright, shiny bracelet. Once you’re in the building, they’re busy boxing up things to send them to the Archives. A few liberated volumes might find their way clear with an enterprising thief in a black robe.”

“You expect us to help you rob the Library?” Santi asked. He looked at Jess’s father as if he were a particularly unpleasant sort of bug he’d found in his stew. “Are you completely mad?”

“You’re no longer part of the Library, is what I’m hearing. You’re on the run from it, like the rest of us poor criminals, so don’t play the proper High Garda captain with me. I could turn you in as easy as dropping a handkerchief. You’re lucky I’m generous, and you can be of some real use.”

“Nic,” Wolfe said. He was staring at Brightwell with flat, dark eyes, like he wanted to take a bite out of him, but his voice was calm enough. “I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t!” Santi shot back. “You’re too recognizable. One look at you, and you’re in the hands of the Artifex.”

“Of course it’s got to be me. You don’t have another gold-banded Scholar to—” Wolfe realized his mistake, but it was too late. Khalila held up her wrist, and her sleeve slipped down to reveal the gold bracelet. “No.”