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hardcover book—and about two inches thick. There was no dust jacket, and it was bound in smooth black leather, with the sort of hubbed spine that Truth associated with the antique books in the Taghkanic College library.
    But this was not an antique book—nor, as she discovered when she opened it, a printed book at all.
    The title page was handwritten in black ink in a sweeping hand. It said: Venus Afflicted: Being a Discourse on the True Rite for the Opening of the Way and Other Matters. Thorne Blackburn.
    Truth flipped through it quickly. The pages were covered with writing in a neat, modern hand, occasionally interspersed with elaborate drawings by the same hand.
    It must be some kind of spellbook, Truth thought numbly. She dropped it back into the box, rubbing her hands together as if she’d touched something dirty. To foster a belief in magic in this modern day and age seemed too much to Truth like a deliberate turning away from rationalism into the dark ignorance of the past. If magic, then why not faith healing and infant sacrifice as well?
    Thorne Blackburn had dedicated his life to obliterating the only weapon humankind had against the universe—the power of the mind—as if he were some demonic quisling of unreason.
    And Aunt Caroline had loved him. Had saved this—this thing for twenty-five years, just so she could someday present it to Truth.
    As if it were a gift —as if it were something Truth should want.
    Truth scooped the ring and the necklace back into the box and set the lid back on it. Trembling, she ran her
hand through her short, sensible hairdo. Her wan, sickened face gazed back at her from the dresser mirror.
    How could she face Aunt Caroline? She could not bear to seem unkind to the woman who had raised her—but how could they have any kind of rational discussion if Caroline Jourdemayne thought Thorne Blackburn and his nasty occult silliness was admirable?
    There was no way.
    Truth sighed deeply, suddenly exhausted. After a long moment she reluctantly picked up the box and went back into the living room.
    â€œAunt Caroline?”
    The old woman was lying on the couch, head thrown back and eyes closed. In sleep she looked even more ghastly; looking at her, Truth could almost see the progress of the terrible disease that ate at her. At Truth’s voice, Aunt Caroline roused slightly.
    â€œAh, there you are.” Her eyes searched Truth’s face hopefully. Truth knew what Aunt Caroline was hoping to see and fought to conceal her real feelings. Arguing about Blackburn now would be no kindness.
    â€œWe have to talk—about the others—” Aunt Caroline said. Her eyes fluttered closed; with a great effort of will she forced them open again. “When … when Katherine died there was so much confusion, so much chaos. I did all that I thought I could, but I failed the others, Truth, that’s why—” her voice trailed off.
    â€œAunt Caroline, you’re so tired,” Truth said quickly. “You really should lie down and rest. Of course you haven’t failed anybody. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.” The hasty words rang loudly false in the room.
    Aunt Caroline shook her head as if even that small motion hurt. “There were others,” she said again, her voice fading.
    â€œWe can talk about them later,” Truth said, cravenly hoping that later would never come.
    â€œYou must find the others. The others need you. The
boy …” Aunt Caroline said, her voice heavy with the drug. As Truth stood watching, the older woman’s eyes slowly closed again. Truth lifted her aunt’s feet onto the couch and covered her with an afghan, making her as comfortable as she could. She did not wish to risk hurting Aunt Caroline further by carrying her into the bedroom, though, looking at the frail, wasted form, Truth knew she could lift her easily.
    As she watched, Aunt Caroline’s breathing slowed and