I folded my arms across my chest, trying to still the jitters tap-dancing through my body. “But it feels like once I learn the letters the block will go away. The word seems to be the whole point.”

Deverell nodded, his lips compressed into a thin line. “I’m certain you’re right. Learning the word is the key to undoing the block. And I will still be able to help you, but I’ll have to be careful not to see the letters myself. I’ve read about similar cases. We shouldn’t ignore your instinct on this or we might make things worse.”

Trying not to freak out by the foreboding in his tone, I said, “Why is the name so important?”

“Because names have power, Dusty. Especially hidden names. It’s an ancient truth that naming something gives you power over it. On the most basic level it’s a symbolic sign of ownership, such as when parents name their children or even when you name your pet. The act of naming is what makes the thing yours.”

I scratched my forehead. “But once you name your kid you tell people about it.”

“True, hence the symbolism.” Deverell punctuated his words with the pen. “Not so when we’re talking about magical things.”

I wrinkled my nose. “There’s a surprise.”

“Did you know witchkind name their magical instruments?”

“They do?”

“Oh, yes. Within days of taking ownership of a wand or a staff, they give it a name but share it with no one. To learn the name of a wizard’s wand is to gain mastery over it. Any magickind can use the power in a magical instrument without knowing the name, but using the power is not the same as mastering it.”

Names have power, I thought. I wondered if Eli had named his wand—surely Lance had told him about the practice, even if the witchkind senators were being jerks about him doing magic.

“So you can see why they are kept hidden, yes?” said Deverell.

I shrugged. “Sure, it’s like putting a password on your e-mail account.”

He scoffed. “That’s putting it extremely mildly, but the idea is correct, to prevent someone from taking what’s yours. But the power in names is so much greater than magical instruments. Take the story of Rumpelstiltskin, for example. Do you know it?”

“More or less. That’s the one where the girl has to learn Rumpelstiltskin’s name or lose her baby. And he’s like a goblin or elf or something.”

“Actually, he was an imp.” Deverell gestured with the pen again and the cap popped off, hitting the floor with a small clink.

I reached out my hand and summoned the cap into my palm. “Let me guess,” I said, handing it back to him. “You’re getting ready to tell me that the story is true, right?”

Deverell’s smile was more of a grimace as he recapped the pen and set it on the desk. “Oh yes, I’m afraid it is.” He glanced up at the clock above the door. I followed his gaze and saw we had only a few minutes left before the bell rang.

“But let me summarize,” he continued, walking back around the desk. “Basically, the story you know is mostly true, only the girl was a witch and not an ordinary miller’s daughter. She really could spin straw into gold, although it was just an illusion spell. She made an unwise bargain with Rumpelstiltskin, and when he came to collect she refused to pay. But there’s no breaking a deal with an imp. At least not while it lives.”

I cringed. That was the problem with the true version of fairy tales—they managed to be even more gruesome than the original Brothers Grimm, and that was saying something. “Let me guess. They’re not so easy to kill either.”

“Not at all.” Deverell slid open a drawer and pulled out a pile of ornate blindfolds made of black velvet studded around the edges with silver beads and set them on the desk. “The witch managed by learning the imp’s true name. Every living being, ordinary and magickind alike, has a true name, you see. It’s one we’re born with and not given. Most of us never learn our true name. The knowledge remains buried deep inside our unconscious until we die. To know your true name in life is incredibly dangerous.”

“I would think it would be helpful.”

Deverell shook his head. “The spirit of a living thing is similar to magic. And as magic can be harnessed through words and incantations, so can your spirit be harnessed by your true name.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, dreading the direction this story was headed.

Deverell continued, “Now, imps like Rumpelstitlskin are an exception when it comes to true names. They’re born knowing theirs—the knowledge the only way for them to tap their magic. So once the witch learned it, she gained the same mastery over Rumpelstiltskin’s magic, which she then turned against him. Since she didn’t have enough of her own power to do it, she forced him to perform the asunder curse on himself.”

I gaped. The asunder curse did exactly what it implied—ripped things in half. It wasn’t a banned black magic spell, but it was so dangerous only law enforcement officials and the like were permitted to learn it. “But how is that possible? Curses can’t be self-administered.”

Mr. Deverell wagged a finger at me. “Oh, but it wasn’t. Once the witch knew the true name, the imp’s spirit and his magic became hers to command and control however she wanted. Rumpelstiltskin died a slave.”

“And in pieces,” I muttered, shuddering.

With an effort, I forced my mind away from the story and back to the problem at hand. “I still don’t see what all of this has to do with the name on the plinth, though.”