And then I see something that stops me in my tracks. A section of shelves marked APPRENTICES. It’s filled with dozens of leather-bound volumes. I pick up one at random and thumb through the pages. The book is filled with information about former apprentices—their names, bone magic specialties, towns of record. And there are multiple entries for each student, written in different penmanship, with updates added year after year as circumstances changed.

I glance over handwritten notes that document major life events—moves to a new town, joining ceremonies, the birth of children, illnesses, but I don’t recognize a single name. And most of the records include a death date. Too long ago then. I pick up volume after volume until finally I find something that makes my lungs constrict. My mother’s name and vital details written in neat, delicate script: Della Holte, Third Sight Bone Charmer, Midwood. Other facts are here as well. Her appointment to the town council, her bone match to my father (and the date of their joining ceremony), my birth.

At the bottom, in block print, is the word “deceased.” The ink is a smidge darker than all the other entries, as if this could have been written yesterday, and I can’t help but imagine the librarian pulling this book from the shelf and unceremoniously scribbling the date my mother died, her mind occupied with other things. My eyes sting.

I force myself to breathe, to blink. And then I reach for a different emotion instead. I let fury blaze through me and evaporate my unshed tears.

Now that I’ve found the correct book, I don’t need to worry about Avalina. I’ll find Latham’s record instead. Discover where he lives, who he knows. How to hurt him.

Frantically, I turn the pages, but find nothing. I flip back to the beginning and start again, going more slowly this time, careful to read every name before moving to the next. Halfway through, my eye catches an irregularity. A jagged edge of paper juts up from deep in the seam. I stop and move the book closer to my face. Tiny scraps poke out from the middle of the book. Someone has torn out a series of pages. Certainty falls over me like a cloak. Latham’s entries. They must be.

I search the rest of the book for Avalina’s name, but she’s not here either.

I have the sudden urge to slam a fist into the entire row of books and send them soaring. I pace up and down the aisle, taking deep breaths and trying to rein in the rage that bubbles up my throat like poison. How is it that Latham manages to rip the heart from everything that matters?

I drag the toe of my boot along the smooth bone floors, wishing I were outdoors, where there are rocks to kick.