“Yes, madam,” the boy said, brave enough to give her a petulant look for interrupting his reading again, but not brave enough to ignore the order.

“Children,” the Belladonna huffed as she led Nicholas and Sophia to the door behind the counter. “The only thing they’re good for is eating.”

Sophia barked out a surprised laugh, but Nicholas wasn’t quite convinced she was joking, given the casual way the woman had begun to twirl the blade with a shocking disregard for her fingers.

“She can follow me,” the Belladonna said, gesturing to Sophia as she began down the dark stairs, “and to hell with you, you humorless sop. Oh—you’ll want to hold your breath as you take the last few steps. If you faint, you roll down at your own peril.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nicholas caught a hint of something vaguely putrid and found himself doing as asked.

The lower level seemed to be two flights down, lit only by the faint orange haze crawling up the steps from fires below. Nicholas had a vague memory of something Julian had told him—that there was a kind of underground city in parts of Prague where they’d been forced to build the streets and buildings up to avoid flooding. The overall impression he had was of climbing through a dark vein to reach the city’s pale bones.

The light was coming from a fire in the corner of what looked to be some sort of workshop. The first small section they moved through contained mostly plants and herbs left to dry, as well as what looked to Nicholas like an area for blowing glass. They continued down the narrow, rough stone artery that connected that room to the next. At the very center of the room was a sort of circular stove, each layer stacked upon the next like the tiers of a dingy stone cake. Glass bottles ringed it like ornaments, many with long, hollow stems for pouring the liquids inside into another, simpler bottle below. As she passed by it, the Belladonna stooped to fan the small fire burning inside its base. Once past it, they were confronted with the sight of what looked to be a bell-shaped oven with small openings, as well as barrels, and mice scampering around them.

“Are you an alchemist?” Sophia asked, understanding the odd sight.

“Well spotted,” the Belladonna deadpanned. “I dabble. You might consider the use of my youth elixir, beastie. You look old beyond your age.”

Nicholas grabbed Sophia’s shoulder before she could make good on the murder in her expression.

One last jaunt down another hall brought them to their destination: an even smaller, darker room. Its only occupant, save for them, was a painting that stood taller than himself, and wide enough to cover the entirety of the wall. Nicholas’s eye was caught first by the glowing moon depicted in the dark, cloudy sky, and next, by the waves washing up onto a deserted, unknown shore.

“Now,” the Belladonna said, “do not touch anything, do not look into any of the mirrors, do not sit on my chairs, and most of all, know that thieves will be dealt with in the manner of ancient justice.”

Sophia gave a sarcastic salute, but Nicholas put a hand on the knife at his side.

With no further instructions or warnings, the Belladonna turned and stepped inside the painting.

IT WAS A PASSAGE, OF COURSE—an oddly quiet creature of a passage that sat just in front of the painted sky. The air shimmered and distorted the peaceful image as the Belladonna passed through it, and the usual drumming sounded off.

Both Nicholas and Sophia turned to look at one another expectantly.

“Oh, no, we’re here for you and your beautiful beloved, not me,” she said. “You test the waters!”

“I only wished to ask if you knew where it led,” Nicholas said brusquely. “I always intended to go first.”

She made a strangled sound of frustration, throwing her hands up. “And subject me to a lifetime of shame and guilt because that witch turns you into a pig and roasts you, before I can get through the passage to save your hide?” Sophia sniffed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, with all of your miserable, obnoxious honor.”

“I would have to say most men wouldn’t enjoy being transfigured into a pig and eaten,” he said. “But if something were to happen, it might as well be to me. You have the better knowledge of where passages are located, and could continue on—”

Sophia rolled her eye and stuck out her hand. Nicholas stared at it, until Sophia let out a huff and grabbed his wrist, dragging them forward. The whole experience was so bewildering that Nicholas hardly took notice of the passage’s usual stormy assault against his senses.

They were launched out of the passage at a run, their steps slowed only by the presence of a heavy Oriental rug and the ragged growl of a large white wolf, curled around the base of an imposing structure of iron that looked like it would better serve as a drawbridge than a desk.

Nicholas backed up as far as he could without brushing the passage, eyes skimming the space around them.

The room was small and without windows, but here and there were drapes slung down over the walls, and rows of glass bookshelves and cases, as red and rich as tides of blood. More alarming, however, was the lack of a door—at least a visible one. There was no indication of where or when they were. No telling sights or sounds. Beyond the dust and smell of age, the only scent he could detect was that same earthy one as before, heightened greatly.

Nicholas sent a wondering look up at the rows of dried herbs and flowers hanging low over their heads, pushing the bundles out of his way to better see the Belladonna. Before she sat behind her desk, she retrieved a jar of foul, bitter-smelling liquid from her shelf and dropped the dagger into it. The mixture bubbled over like a hellbroth.