Mr. Colar had his back to us as we walked to his front counter; I heard the pages of his book rustle.

“I see my wife inherited all the manners in the family,” he said loudly. We were standing right behind him when he finally turned around.

The resemblance kicked the air from my lungs. The similarly bent nose and square jaw, the light, receding hair—the man was a living double of my father.

“A refugee!” he said. “Well, come in!” he added, ushering me closer and ignoring Mr. Monticelli. “Terrible weather, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said. “It makes me miss the desert.”

“I’ve been trying to get home for hours, but I can’t coax my horse from his stable.” He laughed. “You say you’re from the desert? Not much of that in this country.”

“Cliffton,” I answered. “The very far west.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. “Terrible drought you’ve been having—do not touch that, Renaldo!”

Mr. Monticelli dropped the book back onto the counter with a noise that was halfway between a groan and a growl. “I see business has been slow.”

“No slower than yours, I assure you,” Mr. Colar said, turning back to face me. “Now what can I help you with?”

“This pretty young lady has asked about the master weavers,” Mr. Monticelli said.

“Ah,” Mr. Colar said again. “I’m very sorry to say you won’t find any of them here in Fairwell.”

“Why not?” I asked. “I thought Fairwell housed the guild?”

“Years ago,” he said. “Most left when the hedges tried to take the city. Only one, a Mr. Vicksmorro, stayed and suffered terribly for it.”

“I remember now!” Mr. Monticelli cut in. “They poisoned him like a common pig! This was before my sister and I came, you see.”

“I’ll tell the story, thank you,” Mr. Colar said irritably. “Vicksmorro and many of the other guild leaders soon found themselves with raging fevers, horrible spasms in their bodies. Worst of all, their hands shook so badly that they couldn’t practice their craft. Awful magic that was—and it was only rumored to be poison.”

Disappointment washed over me like the cold rain—sudden and surprisingly painful. But just as quickly, a thought struck me as Mr. Colar described the weaver’s hands. How many times had I seen North’s hands tremble and his body shake with unexplained pain? It might be random similarity, but there was a possibility, if only a slight one, that I had accidentally stumbled upon the answer to his mystery.

“Do you think this rumored poison could affect a wizard?”

“My.” Mr. Colar laughed. “What a question! I suppose we could look it up. I believe I remember how to spell the poison’s name.”

The water squelched out of my boots as I followed him through the labyrinth of shelves, running my fingertips lightly over the leather spines. There wasn’t a gap or cranny a book hadn’t been crammed into, red, brown, faded blue. They all looked like they were fighting to slip out from their constraints, to be open on a table or even the floor.

In all, Francis Colar had three hundred twenty-four books on magic, of which fifty had been written in the past thirty years, and only two were of any remote use to us.

“This one,” he began, tugging at a clunky volume, “is a reference guide, covering every possible subject in every possible detail.”

He opened the book, blowing out a small cloud of dust from its pages.

“Black ether…black ether…black—here it is.” Mr. Colar cleared his throat. “‘Black ether, a poison rumored to be developed by a hedge witch community outside of Provincia in the years of King Siegbright. Its contents remain a guarded secret, though its effects are easily recognized. Victims of this poison will display erratic, nervous behavior, severe cramping in abdominal muscles, uncontrollable shaking, and, most noticeably, crescent-shaped welts on the back and chest. Though the pain and welts can be treated with simple elixirs, there is no known antidote.’”

“Nothing about wizards?” I asked.

“Perhaps they have a cleverer way of counteracting it, but the effects would be the same,” Mr. Colar said. “Not even a wizard is immune to poison.”

“If the effects are the same, then any treatment…”

“Would also be the same,” he finished. “But you heard what I read. There is no antidote.”

I still wasn’t fully certain that this poison was causing North’s strange behavior. It was a strong possibility, though, given the disgust that had rolled off him when he told me about the hedges.

“Remember that it was only rumored to be this poison,” Mr. Colar said, snapping the book shut. “Although…if you’re interested in antidotes and elixirs, I do have a book that might be useful to you.”

“I would love to see it,” I said. My eyes followed the line of books in front of me. A Brief History of Casting, Casting Fire, Reign of Magic…

He dropped to his hands and knees, digging through the books he had already cast aside. The book that emerged from the pile was also black, but it was soft and worn down. My eyes fell on the gold-embossed title: Proper Instruction for Young Wizards.

“It’s what all the young ones use while apprenticing. Must have put out a new edition, though. I had a dozen old copies flood in a few years back. It’ll tell you anything you want to know about elixirs and how to make them.”