I was not very surprised that something like this existed within the Red Palace. It was Ana who had shown me several secret passages throughout the castle.

“Come, I want you to go first.”

“Where is it I am going?” I asked as I approached.

“You will see,” she said, standing aside so I could enter the dark passageway. “Wait.”

I did as she instructed, watching as she reached for something just inside the doorway—a torch, which she lit using the candles outside the entrance.

“Take this,” she said, handing it to me, and then she closed the door, and the only light was what I held. Despite the warmth of the fire, the passage was cold. I could feel the frozen air seeping through my dress in spite of its thickness.

“I will be behind you,” she said, and I started forward.

The tunnel curved to the left and then descended into a spiral staircase. I took each narrow step slowly, feeling the dust move beneath my feet. I kept one hand on the wall, which was also gritty and rough. The turn of the stairs eventually led into a room. Without the support of the stone wall, I felt as if I were floating, and it was dizzying. I exhaled slowly and deliberately as I continued down, inhaling the unmistakable smell of old books. It was a scent that clogged the air, making it thick with dust.

I held the torch aloft as I made it to solid ground and took in the room. It was a small, round library with shelves of books, and what did not fit was stacked on the ground or on the desk, which was large and crowded with papers and candles that had burned down to nothing but a pile of weeping wax.

“Are these spell books?” I asked, and when Ana did not reply, I turned to face her.

My hand trembled, a deep part of me overcome with a myriad of emotions I could not quite place. There was a side of me that felt almost joyful and a side of me that felt tortured by the symbolism of these books—one for each witch who had died.

“They are,” she said and took the torch from me, using it to light others around the room before securing it within its own holder. When she was finished, she returned her attention to me. I tried to swallow past the thickness in my throat.

“Zann was right,” I whispered.

The familiar feeling of shock ricocheted through me, but it was quickly replaced by anger. I curled my fists and turned to look at the many and varied volumes. Some were leather bound and some were stitched; some were rolled parchment. These were the spell books of powerful covens and the personal spell books of free witches, and they were all connected by their horrific and systematic murders.

“Ravena must not know,” I said.