Silver glyphs pulsed like living mercury across the cracked leather of the flyleaf, illuminating the dark herb shed with ethereal white light.
Barnaby Holt didn’t dare breathe.
He leaned out the doorframe, his small, dark eyes scanning the frosted gravel path leading toward Cold-Spring Grotto.
Fifty yards away, the grotto tent flap fluttered gently in the predawn mountain wind. A faint wisp of chimney steam curled into the pale sky, signaling that Kaelen Vance was still asleep under his heavy quilts.
“Lock the latch,” a sharp whisper sounded behind him.
Alchemist Linnea stepped into the shed, her embroidered blue sleeves gathered tightly against her wrists.
She dropped the heavy iron bar into place, then pulled a pair of dark felt curtains over the small glass window to block any light leakage.
“If the Young Master sees a single line of this recipe, his alchemical consciousness will awaken automatically,” Linnea warned, her voice barely louder than a rustling leaf. “He’s currently at three hundred and sixty-five hours on Track 3. An alchemical epiphany would force him to ignite his cauldron and destroy his streak.”
