Free The Clockwork Crown by Beth Cato Page A

gorgeous contrast to ebony skin, and then the woman rounded the corner.
    Octavia gnawed on her lip. The vault was the only thing left standing after the firebombing of the palace fifty years ago. Mrs. Stout’s bloodline is the key to entry. Maybe King Kethan did more research on these artifacts as he grew. He told Mrs. Stout when she was a child that they were the most powerful treasures in the vault. He knew something.
    Maybe there’s still information there, along with the artifacts of the Tree. Queen Evandia can’t get in because of her blood. It would all be waiting for us, locked away.
    How odd that she was actually considering a trip into Mercia—­and infiltrating the palace, no less—­after she’d fought tooth and nail against the idea when it was proposed by Alonzo back on the Argus. But this was different. She wasn’t going to stay there, or be in government custody. It could be a mere errand trip, that’s all.
    She snorted. An errand trip into the very palace of Queen Evandia. I’m a flibbertigibbet. It’d be a suicide mission. And yet, if we made it inside the vault . . .
    She rubbed her arm again and frowned, suddenly aware of what she was doing. The area around her bloodletting incision itched. She’d have to check on the discolored skin later.
    Something clunked a few aisles away. Metal whined, followed by the sound of books—­hundreds of books—­thudding to the floor. Metal banged and clattered again. Screams pierced the silence. Books thundered against the shelf before her. Metal smacked, hard. Octavia backstepped as the shelf in front of her tipped. Books poured down in a violent hailstorm. Screeching, she covered her head with her arms as she dropped flat.
    The world turned black in a crush of books.

 
    C HAPTER 4
    Books, marvelous as they were, made for painful missiles. Hardcovers bombarded Octavia from the ten-­foot-­high shelf as it tipped far enough to smack into the next shelf. Leather-­bound edges pounded and gouged into her back and shoulders. She yelped under the assault as books continued to slide down. Screams and yells echoed throughout the library.
    â€œAlonzo!” Octavia called, wiggling to free herself from the pile. “Help!” She shook off enough books to free her shoulders and push herself to her knees. Electric light penetrated the emptied bookshelves and revealed dunes of books around her. Ripped pages crackled under her knees.
    A body approached her from behind. With a start, Octavia realized her headband had been knocked off, as the body’s song rang stronger than before. Woman, healthy, strong. Her heart rate normal. Too normal. Octavia had the sense to roll to one side as the woman dove at her. She whirled to face her attacker—­the redheaded woman who had passed by a minute before. The stranger crouched in the crooked archway of the downed bookshelves, her skirt indecently hiked to show her knees. Her face was emotionless.
    The brasses of Alonzo’s song struck a frenzied melody. Worry, concern, fear. “She is a Dagger,” he said from behind the woman. “I met her more than once in Mercia. The only other Dagger to share Tamaran heritage. Greetings to you, Esme.”
    The woman spun around to confront him. Books shifted and tore beneath her feet. The fallen shelves created a tilted triangle about four feet high at the peak, the space cramped and narrow. Esme carried a knife. The blade glinted with an unreal sheen, not unlike the enchantment on Octavia’s Percival garb. Octavia had a hunch, however, that the knife’s magic had nothing to do with cleanliness.
    â€œAlonzo! That blade—­”
    â€œI am aware.”
    With Octavia on the far side, Alonzo didn’t pull out the Gadsden. Instead, he hefted a knife in one hand and a sizable book in the other. As Esme lunged forward, he wielded the book as a shield as he backed toward the open