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years older and an expert in European history of the Middle Ages. It had been like dating a daydream—everything she could wish for, every box checked. She’d laid her heart at Richard’s feet, and for a time he’d seemed to do the same. They’d been sleeping together for almost a year when she’d forgotten to hide what she was. The slip had been minor—she’d lit a candle with a word of power.
    Richard’s reaction had been instant. He’d rolled out of bed and pulled on his pants almost in one move. When he’d looked up, the light from that fateful candle falling across his features, she’d seen real terror. And then he’d uttered the words she’d least expected to hear: “Get away from me, witch.”
    The episode had happened well over a year ago, but it still stung horribly. All the rage and hurt of that breakup gathered afresh in Tamsin’s soul. She curled her hands around her knees, nails digging through the soft fabric of her skirt. She would not be treated that way, ever again. If Gawain did show up demanding answers, she’d tell him what he could do with his wretched monuments.
    Tamsin jumped to her feet and hurried back inside, where she retreated to the chapel’s vestry. Her tiny office was set up there, although it looked less like an office than a fort made of file boxes. A musty smell drifted from decades of paper records waiting for her attention. Most dated from the seventies, when the crumbling church had been moved over from England. Despite some public objections, the building had been sold to Medievaland’s founder, who had promised to restore it once he had moved it to Washington State.
    Switching on her computer, Tamsin scrolled through what little information she had on the recent history of the Church of the Holy Well and searched for anything about the tombs. All she found was a mention of the crypt—it had been filled in, but one hundred and fifty grave monuments had been packed and shipped with the rest of the building. The records stopped there.
    Tamsin sat back in the chair, mystified. So where were the tombs? Had every single one been sold or loaned out to other places? She didn’t particularly want to help Gawain—he hadn’t been kind or pleasant to her at all. And yet, he had raised some very interesting questions. She hitched forward on the sagging computer chair, put her fingers on the keyboard and began searching for clues.
    By closing time, Tamsin had a headache from staring at the screen. The remainder of the afternoon had flown by, but she’d found no answers. Still pondering the mystery, she crawled into her ancient Camry for the drive home.
    This wasn’t the first dead end Tamsin had found in the past week. Beneath its colorful, family-friendly surface, Medievaland had hidden depths. She’d heard rumors that its library—purchased along with the rest of the crumbling church—held books of magic so old they were rumored to have been handwritten by Merlin the Wise himself. But no employee she’d talked to had heard anything about this most valuable part of the library’s collection. If it existed, it was kept well out of sight.
    Tamsin meant to find the truth, and not just because the Elders wanted answers. Her father, Hector Greene, had been the coven’s loremaster before her. He’d traveled the world, searching out rare manuscripts about magic until a drunk driver had forced his car off a cliff when Tamsin was thirteen. There had been little left to bury.
    Tamsin pulled into the driveway of her apartment building and, a few minutes later, locked the dead bolts to her studio apartment. She collapsed onto her bed, pulling a blanket over her because the heater never quite did the job, and finally began to relax.
    She reached over the side of the bed to where she’d dropped her backpack and rummaged for the side pocket where she kept the book her father had