Madison found Sara Mignon in her studio on the third floor of Saddlewood Hall. Her art teacher was clad in a paint-spattered denim shirt and jeans, flinging exuberant splashes of acrylic onto a rough board the size of a small barn. Two graduate students toiled away at the bottom corners, laying in lines that Sara gleefully ignored.

When she saw Madison, Sara jumped down from her stepladder and set her paints on the bottom step. Using her sleeve, she wiped bright yellow from the tip of her nose. Her curly hair spiraled out every which way, a rich, blue-black color that came from a bottle. She looked like no teacher Madison had ever had before.

“Hey, Maddie. What do you think?”

“Well, it … it's fine. I like it.” Madison was still startled when her professors asked her opinion. Not that she didn't have opinions, she just wasn't used to anybody wanting to hear them. She had gone to schools where you called the teachers sir and ma'am. As in, Yes, sir and Yes, ma'am.

Madison liked everything Sara did, though her teacher's work was really different from her own. Sara's art was tropical in its heat. Madison's painting was cool and smoky and subdued as dusk in the hollows.

Sara (as she insisted on being called) studied the painting critically, hands on hips. “That yellow draws the eye, doesn't it? It might be a little too assertive.” She turned to Madison. “Are you here to talk about your capstone?”

“Well, ah…”

“Let's take a look at it, shall we?”

The capstone projects were displayed in a sunlit studio on the third floor of the art building. Moody oils, languid watercolors, pushy acrylics. Madison's painting was secluded in a corner, covered by a drape.

Sara swept the cloth away and they stood, side by side. Sara studied the work while Madison stared at her toes.

Why did I have to submit that one?

“I like the layering you've done, the flames laid over the stone, the blood splattered on the floor, the arrangement of the bodies, and the way the architecture of the piece carries the eye. There's a strong fantasy element here. Even horror.”

Madison nodded mutely.

“This is really different from your other work,” Sara said. “More abstract, more raw emotion, more hot shades. There's a violence here I haven't seen from you before. Can you tell me about it?”

No, actually. There was a lack of censure in Sara that invited confidences, but Madison knew better than to share this particular secret.

“It's…um…from a dream I had.”

More like a nightmare.

“Well, it's interesting to see you getting away from landscapes and exploring new subjects and styles. At your age, I think that's important.” Sara redraped the painting. “So. Will you be able to help me out next Friday?”

Madison stuffed her hands in her pockets. Saying it made it real. “I … ah … wanted to tell you I can't be here for your opening next week. I—I have to drop out. I have to go home. Family emergency. I'm really sorry.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she turned away, mortified.

Sara put a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No,” Madison said automatically. “Well, maybe. I think I can get it sorted out. But I'll probably have to stay home from now through summer.”

“Going back to those dreamy mountains, are you?” Sara grinned. “I'd call that a gift for an artist.”

Sara had a knack of making you feel good about yourself. She was as sunny as her paintings. “I guess so,” Madison said, feeling a little better. “But I was hoping to get another eight credit hours this semester, what with the two courses I'm taking with you and the capstone. In the fall, I have to pay for it myself. And in the fall, you'll be going back to Chicago.”

Sara frowned and tilted her head. “I don't know why we can't still work together. These aren't lecture courses. It's not like I'd be looking over your shoulder even if you were here. You can paint as well in—what is it—Coalville?—as you can here. Maybe we can meet once a month and I can look over your work and give you a grade at the end of the semester. Can you manage that?”

“I … well… it sounds great. But… would we still work through Trinity High School, or would we…”

“Don't worry,” Sara said, reading her mind. “I'll handle Penworthy.”

“I don't know what to say.” Madison felt the burn in her face that said she was blushing.

Sara studied her appraisingly. “You know, Trinity's a good school, but fine art is not their specialty. Have you ever thought of coming to Chicago?”

“To the Art Institute? Oh, no. I … ah … I couldn't afford that.” Madison swallowed down her hopes. It wouldn't do to let them get the best of her.

Sara gripped her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Madison. Your landscapes are unique, totally refreshing, and you're not even a college student yet. Your voice is much older than your years. Your work is Appalachian, but it doesn't have a breath of folk art about it. You see the supernatural in common things. I would call it ethereal.”

“Look, I really appreciate … everything. But I can't afford to live in Chicago, let alone pay tuition at AIC. The free ride is over after this year. I don't want to graduate a million dollars in debt when I don't know how I'm going to make a living.”

Sara dropped her hands from her shoulders. “You let me worry about that. You just keep painting. I'd like to see more figure drawings and portraits, too. Not just landscapes. Then we'll put together a portfolio for you and see what happens. Deal?”

Madison could only nod.

Sara smiled. “Now, let's make sure you'll have everything you need. We'll just say it came out of course fees.”

Madison left Sara's studio with a backpack full of books, paints, and other supplies. She wandered across Trinity Square, stopping in shops and galleries and using her tip money to buy little presents for J.R. and Grace and Carlene.

Without really meaning to, she found herself walking through the gate at St. Catherine's, crossing the snowy churchyard to the side door of the church. I'll just take one more look, she said to herself. I don't know when I'll be back here again.

It was a Tuesday morning, and the sanctuary echoed with her footsteps, empty of people save an elderly lady kneeling in the front pew, her head bent over her folded hands. Madison slipped quietly to the stairs in the front of the sanctuary that led down to the Mourner's Chapel, walking right through the wards and confusion charms Seph had built to distract anyone snooping around.

At the foot of the stairs, she turned to the left, entering the crypt itself. They'd left the Swift tomb open, trusting to Seph's barriers to keep the curious at bay.

The sorcerer Mercedes Foster and her small committee had obviously been at work. Magical artifacts were laid out in rows, sorted by probable function. Those that had been identified were labeled in Mercedes's neat hand. Symbols and diagrams had been sketched onto the walls, some sort of tally system.

The stone that Jason called the Dragonheart sat off by itself on its dragon stand, a jewel in an elaborate setting. The flames smoldering at its center sent shadows like haunts skulking along the walls.

What are you doing here? Madison asked herself, and got no answer.

She felt the tug of the stone from across the room, dragging her forward. As it had before, the Dragonheart seemed to react to her presence, brightening, colors sliding over each other like brilliant paints sloshing in a jar.

She stood over the stone. As she extended her hand, the light from the stone stained her skin. Her breathing slowed, her eyelids drooped. A rush of brilliant images coursed through her mind: a castle built of stone, a jewel-like valley ringed by rugged mountains, a procession of courtiers bearing gifts. She heard the whisper of a half-remembered song, lines of poetry that broke her heart. She heard someone calling a name she wanted to answer to.

Within her, she felt the hex magic uncoil and quest forward like a serpent.

Without warning, flame rocketed between her and the Dragonheart, sizzling up her arms and into her collarbone. The magics collided inside her. She toppled backward, breaking the connection, landing on her back on the floor, striking her head hard on the stone threshold. She lay stunned for a moment, colors exploding in her head like fireworks in the night sky.

Voices whispered in her head, mingling and competing— pretty promises, endearments, enticements, curses, and warnings. Like spirits battling inside a bell jar until finally they died away.

Gripping the edge of Thomas Swift's crypt, Madison dragged herself to her feet, remembering Min's words.

Do not mess with magic. That's not our business.

But it seemed like magic never tired of messing with her.

The Dragonheart kindled, sending long tongues of flame and shadow reaching toward her like clutching fingers. She had to fight the urge to rush into their embrace.

Madison backed away from the stone, stepped carefully over the threshold, turned, and fled up the stairs.

Chapter Nine Terror in the Crypt

The next morning, Mercedes Foster sat back on her heels and studied the pentagrams she'd chalked onto the stone floor of the crypt. Scrubbing a smudge from her nose with the back of her hand, she looked up at Snowbeard. “What do you think, Nicodemus?”

The old wizard nodded. “It looks perfect to me, Mercedes.”

The sorceress planted her fists on her bony hips and grinned at Jason. “Come on, then. Let's try again.”

“I hope you know what you're doing.” Jason reluctantly took his place within the inner pentagon of one of the pentagrams. The other two took refuge within diagrams of their own. The battered wooden box from Raven's Ghyll sat on the floor in the fourth pentacle.

Mercedes began to speak, a high, singsong chant. Pointing, Nick kindled a bright, hot flame where the four pentagrams came together. Careful not to lean out of the pentagram, Jason gripped the case with a pair of iron tongs and thrust it into the flames.