The key we seek is in a deceptively simple glass case, off to the side of the room in a dim gallery of eighteenth-century European realists.

The room is empty of schoolchildren and nuns and tourists like us, and I understand why. It’s by far the most boring gallery we’ve been in so far. Paintings are arranged from floor to ceiling, in similar hues of dark reds and forest greens. Nearly all depict bowls of fruit or flower arrangements in varying states of decay.

Except for one. It’s tucked most of the way up the wall, like a secret. It’s of a man hunched and clutching a sheet over his face. Above him fly three figures wearing pointed hats, holding the body of a writhing man between them. The sky behind them is pitch black.

I check the placard: WITCHES IN FLIGHT, FRANCISCO GOYA, 1798.

“It’s in here,” Maxine nearly whispers from where she stands at the case.

It’s set quietly, in the green velvet of the case, nearly comical with its incongruity.

“Why don’t we just steal it now?” I ask.

Maxine narrows her eyes in consideration, then extends a hand and whispers, “Briseadh.”

The lock on the case does not budge.

I don’t know if it’s because the lock is enchanted, something from the Sons, or perhaps the magic going haywire from the open veil has something to do with it.

Suddenly Maxine stumbles backward, snatching her hand to her side as if she’s been burnt.

I know without having to ask that she’s just felt it too, the horrible shocking. Her eyes are frightened as they meet mine.

The three of us jump as a man in a black guard’s uniform appears behind us. “Can I help you ladies?”

“No!” we all say at the same time.

Nina scurries into the room, a giant smile across her face. “You have to see this one!” she exclaims. “There’s a mermaid!”

We should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

Lena and I share a glance once out in the hallway. I know she’s considering our options too. I could control the body of one guard, assuming my magic is working, but more than one and we’d be out of our depths. And then we’d have to get out of the museum without getting caught, and we have Nina with us.

It’s impossible.

I spend the rest of the museum trip lost in thought, considering my options. We could break into the Louvre at night, but I’m sure there are guards patrolling then, too. We could come back with disguises and weapons and a getaway driver, conducting a smash and grab like proper criminals. I could ask my father, but I’d really rather do anything but that.