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We’re not the only ones who heard the scream. Other people appear, emerging from doors and adjoining corridors.

“What happened?” a man asks Henrik, joining him. “Is she—” His words are cut off by his gasp.

“Stay back, Clover,” Henrik warns, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen the red pool seeping into the carpet around the woman’s head.

“Is she…” a hall maid asks timidly.

“She’s breathing,” Henrik says. “But she needs Master Pranmore.”

“The Woodmore?” one of the gawkers asks skeptically.

“Find him!” Henrik snaps, losing his patience—something I’ve only witnessed once or twice.

“I’ll go,” I offer, already taking off down the hall at a run.

* * *

Blood stains Henrik’s hands, and his thoughts are shielded. Along with what appears to be half the castle, he and I watch Pranmore use his magic to heal the seeping wound.

“She must have hit her head when she fell,” Henrik murmurs to me.

“What was she doing in the library?” I ask. “And why did she scream like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You recognize her, don’t you?”

Slowly, he nods. “I’ve seen her around.”

Pranmore pushes himself to his feet. He tells several nearby guards, “She may now be transported to my quarters. Mind her head.”

We follow the procession, trying to puzzle out the strange situation. No one was in the hall—no one saw the woman go down. Did she faint? Did she trip? Was she attacked?

Perhaps she went into the library to fetch something, and Henrik and I startled her? Ghost stories are making their way around the castle thanks to Camellia. Perhaps she fell in her rush to escape.

Once we reach Pranmore’s quarters, the elf excuses the guards, shutting out all but Henrik and me. The woman lies on the bed in the room the elf uses as a solitary infirmary, unconscious but breathing.

“Clover, assist me,” Pranmore says. “We must remove her blood-stained clothing and get her into something clean.”

Henrik steps outside, closing the door to give the woman privacy.

I unlace her overdress, trying not to focus on the drying blood already stiffening the fabric around her shoulders. But when I begin to pull her shift over her head, I gasp. There, lying on a chain against her chest, is a stone I’ve only read about in books.

Blood-red magic swirls inside the transparent crystal vessel, just as unsettling as I imagined.

“Pranmore!” I hiss. “Look.”

He turns around and inhales sharply. “It’s a tambrel stone.”

“She’s awitch,” I say, aghast. Immediately, I think of all the places I’ve bumped into the woman. Who is she?

“I couldn’t sense the magic because of the stone,” Pranmore admits, and then he warns, “Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Almost wishing we’d left her for dead, I ask, “What are you going to do with her?”

“I’ll place a ward around her,” he says. “We’ll question her when she wakes.”

I cover her and the offensive pendant with a sheet. “Do you think this has something to do with Camellia?”