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And that was before her mother had sewn magic into her father’s skin.

This terrible person, this abductor-spell worker, could sense that magic in her friends. Vivi was half Cervantes, half Grimwaldian, and she had inherited her mother’s magic. Theothers were all Cervantes, born and bred, and she had thought she was the only magical member of the group. It was a lesson in assumptions for her. A lesson in respecting the inherent magic her mother thought resided in her father’s people.

Their abductor told them he collected magical things. And for all he had managed to take them all with barely any trouble, he looked old and sick. His eyes blinked often, as if he had trouble seeing, and he moved as if his joints ached.

He kept going on about how amazed he’d been to find they all had some power. They were his biggest haul.

He had rubbed hands together as he said it, and smiled that horrible smile.

He was gone now.

He’d left them in a stone cell, herself and Genevieve chained to the wall closest to the barred door, with Jonquil and Ricardo chained to the wall at the back, with a long wooden bench along each wall for them to lie or sit on. There were chains enough for two more people—a fifth and sixth were looped up high on the wall opposite. The whole fourth wall, that ran along the front of the room, was simply metal bars all the way across with a door made up of the same bars set into it for access.

It meant he could see exactly what they were up to as soon as he came in.

He seemed to also be able to see magic, and so she suppressed her first thought, which was at least to braid protection into her hair. It would only give her away that much faster.

He’d left—she didn’t see him go, but she’d heard the creak and then slam of a door—so that the only sound was the labored breathing of her friends.

She hadn’t been able to breathe very well herself, but she was improving. It had been the most frightening experience of her life, being unable to so much as twitch a finger—aware andawake but frozen in place, trying to force air in and out of her lungs.

She had been staring up at the ceiling for a while when Genevieve made a sound behind her. Viviane almost didn’t realize the significance of being able to twist her head back to look at her, but when she realized she could finally move, she tried to sit up.

She rolled off the bench instead, but she didn’t mind the pain of landing on the cold stone floor. She was getting the use of her body back.

And every breath came more easily.

“Gen, you all right?” she managed to wheeze.

Genevieve’s answer was a desperate choking sound, as if she tried to speak and coughed instead.

“Shh,” Vivi whispered. “Take your time. Whatever he did to us, it’s loosening its hold.”

Across the room, Jon sucked in a rattling breath. “Fuck me.”

Jon liked to swear, and they teased him about it, but right now, Vivi couldn’t think of a more on point description of their situation.

“Ric?” she managed to get out.

Jon coughed. “Looks like he’s asleep.”

“Ric stabbed him,” Vivi suddenly remembered. “With a sharp stick. Maybe he did something more to him than the rest of us.”

“Where are we?” Gen whispered.

Vivi felt a wave of relief at hearing her speak. “I don’t know.”

“Why does he keep saying we’re magic?” Jon asked, voice more hushed now, in line with Gen’s.

“I don’t know,” she said again. “But it’s not good.”

Ric suddenly drew in a whistling breath, and Viviane finally managed to struggle up to a seated position. She moved slowly, like the old men and women in the Fernwell market, got onto her hands and knees, and crawled toward him.

The chain on her ankle yanked her back just before she reached him.

She stretched out her hand, but she couldn’t touch him.

Jon finally managed to move a little. He swung his legs down so he was sitting on the bench, then shuffled along it. He heaved himself up and used a hand against the wall to steady himself until he was standing over his friend.