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Theo weighed the risks of getting as close to Melodie as he could and asking her what Marchant had done to her, but he wasn’t sure if she was conscious, or how long Marchant would be, so he held.

If Marchant didn’t know he was here, now was not the time to give it away.

He was glad he had stayed put when Marchant came straight back out, pulling a cart behind him.

He maneuvered Melodie onto it, taking very little care with her, and then pulled her toward the workshop.

The spell worker had to stop a number of times to catch his breath, and each time he did, he stood with his hand in Melodie’s bag, touching something inside reverently.

The paint box, if Theo were to guess.

At last they reached the workshop door, and Marchant pulled the cart inside.

Theo collapsed back inside the prison. He rubbed a hand over his face. He had never thought Marchant would keep the barrier closed after everyone was out. He’d been counting on sneaking out.

But Marchant hadn’t once looked in Theo’s direction, and Theo didn’t think he had the self-control to play such a deep game.

So, perhaps they still had some element of surprise, but that did nothing to help Melodie—unconscious, vulnerable, and in the hands of their enemy.

Melodie came backto herself slowly, trying to ignore the annoying tapping on her cheek.

“There you are.” Marchant’s face floated above her. He didn’t look happy.

“I didn’t go anywhere,” she managed to say. She refused to cower to this despicable man. “You hit me with a spelled stick, remember?”

With a jolt she remembered the handkerchief, and slid her left hand down her sleeve.

Nothing.

Her hands clenched. It was gone.

She swallowed the bile of defeat that rose up in her throat and closed her eyes again.

“Looking for this kerchief?” He waved it in front of her face. “Clever to scoop the last of the magic from the box. Not clever to let it drop out.”

She simply shook her head, eyes still closed. Nothing she said could change what had happened.

“Come on. Get up.” He tapped her cheek a bit harder, and she jerked away, eyes squinting as she tried to focus. The light in the room was low, coming from a single sconce near the door.

She noticed the stick, though, leaning against the wall beside them. It no longer glowed, and as she shifted to get more comfortable, she realized she hurt in more places than just her side.

He’d hit her a few times after she’d fallen, it seemed.

He’d used it up.

“You were scared you’d gone too far,” she whispered. “Weren’t you, old man? You’re so out of control, you nearly killed the one thing you’ve hunted for your whole life.”

He drew back from her as if she’d struck him.

“You shouldn’t have used the paints,” he said.

“I didn’t even know who you were when I bought those paints. And I used them to work out what they did.”

“You knew later, though,” he insisted.

“Sure, later, after I spoke with the trader again, I knew he’d stolen them from you. Do you not use things because they’ve been stolen from someone else?” She glared at him from under her half-slitted eyelids.

He breathed out, as if trying to get his temper under control. “I’d been looking for these paints for years. I knew they’d beenmade, and I tapped every source I knew trying to track them down before someone used them up.”