Simon’s brain was going to pour out of his ears. The books Mari had handed him were, in theory, interesting. Histories of magic, records of the creation of artifacts each ruler used to channel their power, detailed records of how monarchs’ specialties varied. That this much record keeping had been done at all was fascinating. And yet as he sat in the basement, head propped up in his hand, his eyes felt as if they were glazing entirely over.

This should have been fine. Since he was young, Simon had been perfectly capable of losing himself in the soft, worn pages of books. While Isador would often squirm and complain after more than a few moments of sitting still in the library, Simon had always been able to focus. Distraction was not an issue. So why now was he struggling to keep his gaze upon the pages before him? There was more reason than perhaps ever before to pay attention to the task at hand. This was not some minor organizing job or unimportant research. This mattered. Figuring out the source of the light was vital.

If that column continued to grow— and Simon was certain that it would if it was not forcibly stopped— there was no telling what would happen to those in its path. Unless it ran out of whatever was fueling it. Aria. Aria had to be the source. But it made no sense that she could access magic.

Even that, though, was impossible to keep his mind on.

Simon should not be thinking about Isador right now. There was no tight deadline when he needed to report back to him. There was no one looking over his shoulder asking when he would tell the prince that his mother had almost certainly murdered his father. There was no lawyer demanding that he offer more proof than a missing body and a former palace worker’s gossip. Compared to the growing light that loomed above them all, it was unimportant.

And yet it was all Simon could think of right now.

Isa had looked so happy during Simon’s portrait. When they parted, he had smiled so softly.

The question gnawed at Simon, too, why had it been Isador’s father and not his own that greeted them in that void?

Maybe that wasn’t a particularly fair question. It might have been up to chance. It was up to chance. But it still lingered on his mind. The only time he had seen spirits of any kind before had been when the royal family summoned them.

It had fascinated him when he was little. When the King’s father had passed, the ceremony was performed. It could only be done with royalty, channeling the magic of the living with what remained part of those who passed. It was not something they performed often, and very few people were invited to witness the spectacle. It would be disrespectful to make it into a show for the people, Salvador had said once. But having close friends of the family was no problem. It would comfort the dead to see familiar faces.

It was beautiful. The spirits had danced like black smoke, moving through the room, speaking calmly to those in attendance. They weren’t quite like the one they had seen inside the light. They were light, translucent instead of obsidian, wispy instead of fully formed, and when they spoke it could be heard by everyone.

Dorian had offered, once, to bring Simon his father. With their bloodline being so tied to magic, even if they couldn’t wield it, it was possible there would be enough connection to bring him back.

There were days when Simon wished he hadn’t declined.

But if it was possible, why hadn’t he appeared then? Maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe his father simply wasn’t aware of what was going on enough to show up. Simon certainly didn’t know how the afterlife worked well enough to know if every spirit had been given notice that there was something strange going on. Maybe it was just that Isa had been the one to first walk through the threshold.

But if only royalty could be intentionally summoned because of their ties to magic, how had this spirit even appeared? The Menks, so far as Simon knew, were not connected to magical history in any discernible way. Not the way Simon’s was, at the very least. So how was he there? Did spirits operate differently in the void? It didn’t make sense. They knew how spirits worked.

Simon’s fist clenched against the wood of the table, but the sound of ceramic clacking against the table made him jump.

Mari stood above him, hand grasping her own mug. “You drink coffee, yes?”

He did not. But he reached forward, taking the cup she had placed before him. It was hot on his hands and the bitter smell made his eyes water. “Thank you.” Her eyes had always carried heavy bags beneath them. That was just something that came with this work, Simon supposed. They had never been quite so dark, though. With her free hand, she reached up, adjusting the silk scarf that covered her head. “Are you doing alright?”

She nodded. “You have been here for hours. You should rest soon.”

He bit his lip. “I haven’t made a dent in the papers you gave me. I need to make progress.”

Mari let out a sigh. “What is on your mind? You’re usually quite a quick one.” She pulled back the seat across from him, settling down. She sipped at the coffee in her cup and Simon wondered if it would be impolite if he avoided drinking his own.

He could not tell her about Edward Menk. “I am fixating on the wrong things, I fear. For all our knowledge of spirits, I am at a loss as to why a person outside the royal bloodline would be able to return through channeled magic. I doubt this will help in the greater understanding of this place, but…”

“Very interesting. If I am honest, I had not considered the spirit much at all,” Mari said, leaning back. “Though, I suppose you have more reason to. You said it was a relative you saw?”

Simon nodded. A knot formed in his stomach the second he did so. It had been one thing to lie with Isador at his side and worried. But if this would change the way Mari went about the investigation, that would be no good.

”I wonder if it might be your father’s bloodline connecting them to this world. It is truly a unique case.”

”It was a relative of my mother. We weren’t very close, but… I met some of her cousins and aunties some time ago.” That was not entirely a lie. Even if his mother had been estranged, he had run into some of her extended family when he was young. They had not recognized him in the slightest, and Simon had only been told after they were gone exactly who they were, but they had met at least. “I had considered the same, but it wouldn’t be possible. Especially since my parents never married.”

Mari looked into her drink. “It does not fit our current understanding, then. I do not fault you for latching onto this thread.”

Simon frowned. “I fear I am tugging at too small a piece of the greater picture.”

“Maybe it is the exact thread that undoes the tapestry. Do you think it is more likely that this place is exceedingly special, or that our understanding of spirits and magic is entirely wrong?” She did not sound as if she were trying to lead him toward either option, but it was obvious when she said it aloud. This place was already wrong. Why would it abide by the rules of spirits? But… it had to abide by something. It had been created with magic— via a method they did not grasp yet, but which Aria had. There had to be a reason for it.

There had to be a connection.

”Mari, when a person is touched by magic before death, is there any way to know?”

She blinked.

”Sorry. I know it is an odd question.”

”Do you think that could be why your relative was able to come? Did she know the royal family?”

He shrugged. “Possibly. Dorian— Prince Dorian toured the local cities and met with people often.” His stomach felt sour even thinking about it. He had left so early one of those mornings when Simon still lay disheveled in bed. He had somewhere to be. There was no time to spend coddling his friend. “He likes to show off for the people. If she’d been in direct contact with any of it, perhaps.”

Mari pursed her lips. “I don’t know if that would be possible. Unless she had been healed with magic, but none of the current users are especially familiar with that. His Highness may have been experimenting, I suppose. Though I do not know if we have any accessible record of what that looks like after death.” She took a small sip of her coffee. “However. There have been artistic depictions of those who have been killed by previous monarchs. There is a look to it.” She turned, gesturing to a row of shelves several feet behind them. “I believe there was a court painter who did sketches. Al-Mazar if I recall correctly. It should be with those records if you want to pull it. Perhaps there will be similarity with some quality of the spirit you saw.”

Simon nodded. His jaw ached from clenching. “I wouldn’t like to continue down this vein while you work so hard.”

Mari stood, waving her hand. “I am the head of these Archives. Do not worry about me. I appreciate you having such a different mindset. You may find things I am missing. Report back anything you find notable, yes?”

”Yes, ma’am.” He rose, watching her move through the rows, disappearing. Well then. That was something. If magic might leave traces on the body, it would be necessary to remove Edward Menk’s body from the coroner before it was examined. Just how visible would it be, though?

Simon stepped closer to the shelves, fingers moving over the spines. The records of court painters through the ages. Simon had liked these when he was younger. The art was beautiful, and it was good to put visuals to the stories he studied. He plucked a volume, parting the pages.

There it was, directly before him, inked images of a cadaver, skin stained with black. It moved over the body like a pitch dark watercolor, marring the body. It seemed almost to glow with darkness.

If Edward Menk had been killed with magic, he was not going to be able to be seen by a coroner without being noticed.

Simon’s own father had not looked like that when he passed, nor after the fact. Simon’s stomach was filled with acid that bubbled up to his throat, thick and bitter. If the corpses looked like this, then no wonder Their Majesties would use a proxy like Mikhail.

No. Simon couldn’t say for sure if that was the case.

Mikhail may have done it on his own. He had been jealous of his father’s position. It was still too unclear to give the man any kind of pass. Simon took a breath, scanning the shelf for the space from which he’d pulled the book.

Directly beside it, in much newer binding, rested a book with a name written neatly upon the spine. Menk.  Arthur Menk. Simon bit his lip, following lettering on the next few volumes. They were all donated collections of sketches. Not uncommon for those artists who often worked with the royal family. But— Edward Menk. Only one volume.

Simon took it in his hands.