Aunt Elaine sweeps it away. “Bridget, no doubt. But where did she get them?”

“It could have been Niall.” Uncle Roy rolls his eyes and mutters, “Acting like you know everything.”

Colin stiffens at the mention of his parents’ names, and I glower at Aunt Elaine and Uncle Roy, who are too busy bickering to notice. I’m not the only one who could do with being more respectful of other people’s emotions. Death is such a normal part of our lives that we barely think of it anymore. Sometimes we forget how real it can be.

“What are they?” I ask again to get them to stop arguing.

The blades, like everything else, look almost alive on the page, the golden streaks glowing brighter than any drawing medium I can think of. What had they done, mixed it with real gold?

I trace the shape with a finger. There’s a small triangular chip in the right one, resembling the tip of a cat’s ear. They’re rendered with such amazing detail that it makes me want to try to re-create the drawing myself.

“Saint Knives are extremely rare,” Aunt Elaine explains in her “historian” voice. She and my dad are the readers in the family, though Aunt Elaine loves history in particular, while my dad focuses on magical objects. “They’re made from the tombstones of Irish saints who were also members of the Ravenguard, but there were so few of them, and I don’t think any remain today. Only the most ancient Irish family lines have them, which—”

“The important thing,” Uncle Roy cuts in, “is that they’re capable of killing a lot of magical creatures that can’t die by other means. Wraiths have other weaknesses, but Saint Knives are extremely effective against them.”

That gets Colin’s attention. His expression hardens. “How do I use them?”

Aunt Elaine grins mischievously. “That’s the fun part.” She holds out the journal to him, and Colin takes a deep breath before plunging his hand inside. He withdraws the blades, which glint in the afternoon light.

“Do you have any experience with knives?” she asks, holding out her hand for the blades.

“Some. Liam trained me a little bit.” He hands them over, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I never figured this out on my own.”

Aunt Elaine laughs and holds up the blades. “Saint Knives are the same as any other in regard to wielding them, but they’re much lighter than anything you could buy around here. You have to be careful not to forget you’re holding them.” She flips a knife expertly from her palm to her fingers, catching the blade between her index finger and thumb, a skill I’ve always envied.

She’s taught me a trick or two with throwing knives, but I’ve never plucked up the courage to try catching them.