32

Horatio followed Felice through a very narrow corridor. As the walls seemed to shrink to crush him, his faith in her was waning once again. Why had she chosen to come this way? They had stalked through three different passages. Each time he tried to question her, she lifted her hand as though she were listening to something, but here they were, as far as he could tell, lost again and in a very tight predicament. If it closed off any more, he would have to find another way around.

“Felice, let’s stop and take a look at the cartograph,” he said.

Felice extracted herself from the corridor and, he thought, made a show of waiting for him to make his way out.

Sharp stones grasped at his arms as he wound his way from the darkness to a torchlit chamber.

“Don’t you hear the screams, ’Ratio?” Felice said, running toward the end of the hall.

Horatio growled, trying to keep the sound of disgust in his throat. She was making things up now, he was sure of it. Yet he followed her still.

They huffed around the corner, and Felice stopped as though getting close to her prey, planting her heel down and then her toes.

“Let’s have a look,” Horatio said.

“Shh.” Felice placed a finger to her lips.

“Do not shush me.” Horatio grasped her sleeve at the shoulder and shoved her into the wall. He quickly let go, backing up to the other side of the passage. Counting to ten.

“I think you’re getting frustrated,” Felice said. “Ares said that the labyrinth has driven people mad in the past.”

Horatio pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. His arm brushed the wall behind him and he felt a steady vibration in it. Was it electricity? He turned to it, placing his palm along it.

“What is it?” Felice asked, coming to him. She placed her hands on the wall beside his.

Horatio looked down to the ground. There, a small puddle began to form from a crack in the stone. He traced the wall with his flashlight, seeing a larger pool of water forming just outside a stone door. There, beneath a few hanging roots, was a labrys. He traced the fossilized ax with his fingertips and gasped. The writings of Hexalodorous were right about their depiction of the deadly innovator’s door. His whole body surged, wondering if these plants fossilized here were the ones from the history. The ones used as part of the Icarus Folio.

“It’s Daedalus’ workshop,” he breathed, tracing his fingers along the stone. “And it has been disrupted.”