I set the bones alight. Extinguish the flames. Tip the basin onto the cloth in front of me. And then I close my eyes. First, I make quick work of spying on the Masons. They’re working on crafting household items—goblets that continuously fill with water until the drinker’s thirst is quenched, torches that stay illuminated without flame, bowls that keep food warm until it’s ready to be eaten. Niklas sits at one of the tables, carving the small delicate hands of a bone clock. His dark hair flops across his forehead, and he keeps pushing it out of his eyes with his wrist, never setting down his knife. I linger on him a moment longer than the others. As soon as I’m confident I have a clear enough picture to answer any of Kyra’s questions, I shift my attention to finding Latham. It will be infinitely harder without his blood, but if I can just focus well enough …

An image of him floats into my memory—angular face, dark hair shot through with silver, smile that can change from sincere to sneering in a single breath.

But even with a clear picture of him in my mind, I struggle to find him in the vision. I think of the necklace in my pocket. Defensive magic. I know from my other path that Latham was using it by the time I arrived at Ivory Hall. Maybe I need to go further back. He’s probably impossible to see in the present.

I try to find familiar anchor points that connect the two of us—my house in Midwood, the ship where I saw him in a vision talking to Declan all those months ago—but the memories are full of so much pain, my mind flinches away.

I take a full breath and try to sink deeper into the reading. I need this to work. I need more information before I can figure out what he’s trying to do with Gran’s bones. An image of the shop flickers at the edge of my awareness.

The moment I focus on it, the shop transforms.

The peeling paint disappears, replaced with a crisp white exterior. Letters unfurl above the door in swirling gold script: Perfectly Tuned.

A young Latham—probably not much older than I am now—stands outside. His hair is much shorter than I’ve ever seen it, and a richer, deeper color too. His stomach churns with anxiety. He takes a deep breath before pulling open the door. A bell attached to the handle announces his arrival. The shop is captivating. Peacock-blue walls, wooden slat floors, a variety of musical instruments displayed on tables and shelves.

A woman bustles around the room, humming to herself as she works. She’s tall and wiry—all angles, and no curves. She turns when Latham enters, her expression melting into a smile that softens her whole face.

“Latham. What a nice surprise.”

“Hello, Mother.”