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E mery’s lips firmed into a thin line of annoyance as he glanced subtly toward the spot where Ambrose hid. They couldn’t do anything except wait for Morcant’s return and hope he hadn’t eaten the whole punnet in the meantime.

In the quiet that followed, tension coiled.

“How long does it take?” asked Windsor, one of the initiates.

The question was not directed at anyone in particular, but their attention seemed magnetized to Emery, who leaned indolently against the sarcophagus. Even the third years, who’d been through this before, looked to him rather than answer.

“Fifteen minutes, if it goes well. Twenty if not.”

That only made Windsor more nervous. “How is it meant to go well? I don’t understand what we’re supposed to do.”

“It’s just a meditative exercise,” Emery said. “Helps open you to the spirit world. Useful for communicating with ghosts. Witches are bridges between material and ethereal planes anyway. It’s innate. Honestly, I fell asleep during mine and still passed.”

Windsor didn’t look comforted in the least, and the other initiates continued to eye Emery like he was a fox in a coop of chickens.

While they waited, Ambrose risked moving to the side of the sarcophagus Morcant usually gave his speeches from.

Emery’s enchantment made his passage silent.

To avoid being bumped into, he scrunched up to sit on the edge of a sarcophagus set into the wall.

It was not a perfect hiding spot. If Morcant strayed too close to the wall, he might bump Ambrose’s knees, but with the corpse door just to his right, he was at greater advantage to drop the hexed fruit in with the rest.

The time passed slowly. Finally, the corpse door scraped open, making the other initiates jump. Saoirse emerged, looking clammy-skinned but well.

“Saoirse has passed,” Morcant said. “With flying colors, might I add. I hope she’ll wear the mark of her official initiation into our guild with pride. There are no more tests for her. All my knowledge, she can count as hers, too.”

Saoirse glowed, or perhaps that was the sheen of sweat. Hellebore was nowhere to be seen.

Ambrose strained his neck to see if she hung back in the doorway but she wasn’t there.

Perhaps she awaited the next initiate in the tomb. Either way, another chance to place the tomato—which Ambrose was beginning to think of as their murder weapon—had passed.

Frustrated, he squeezed back into the alcove while Morcant passed, picking up the spell objects and leading Windsor through the corpse door.

That only left Iris. Afterward, Ambrose had to hope for an opportunity before the rite finished entirely. He didn’t relish discovering the limits of Emery’s patience if he failed.

Windsor took the full twenty minutes. Morcant announced he had performed “admirably.”

Ambrose had often known, upon entering a room, whether the witch king was calm or agitated based on the quality of the silence alone. The infinitesimal pause before Morcant said “admirable” implied it was anything but. It certainly paled in comparison to his effusive praise of Saoirse.

Windsor had looked relieved until the pronouncement. Now, he looked anxious.

Morcant left with Iris. Ambrose wished he could reconvene with Emery, ask what he should do if the opportunity did not present itself.

Could they risk planting the hex near the end of the meeting, when Morcant would be leaving the isolation of the tomb and might find help in time?

It was late at night, or early morning. The world would not be awake, but Ambrose didn’t like to take the initiative without orders.

He couldn’t be punished for doing what he’d been told, but that never held true for improvisation.

The tomb wasn’t as quiet, with Saoirse and Windsor discussing in low voices how their rite had gone.

Ambrose risked emerging to edge around the room to the place Emery stood.

He didn’t want to startle Emery by touching him, but he also didn’t want to risk speaking loudly enough that the cavernous room caught the sound.

The charm muffled his footsteps, not his voice.

Emery leaned against the wall, one leg kicked back against it, arms crossed, a finger tapping restlessly against his elbow. Ambrose, hoping to trap the sound between the wall and his body, stood as close as he dared and whispered into Emery’s ear.

“If a reliable opportunity does not arise, should I still go through with it?”

Emery didn’t jump or shout, but he went rigid with alarm.

Goose bumps rose on his neck where Ambrose’s breath fell.

He turned his head slightly, perhaps testing how close they were, and his nose nearly brushed Ambrose’s cheek.

He’d be able to tell from his hot breath condensing before him that Ambrose was very near, but he didn’t speak.

He gave a stiff, barely perceptible nod.

Ambrose shivered, though whether because he still had a job to do or because Emery’s closeness was a pocket of heat in the cold tomb, he didn’t know. He pushed off the wall, padding silently back to his hiding place.

The corpse door shuddered open again. Morcant declared Iris successful, his praise neither glowing nor underhanded, merely neutral. She looked peevishly at Saoirse, who smirked back. Then, finally, finally, Hellebore emerged.

The punnet of tomatoes was, mercifully, not empty. But it wasn’t particularly full either.

The moment had come. Ambrose reached into the folds of his cloak and removed the tomato, which he buffed to remove any lint.

Not as though Morcant had to worry about consuming dirt, given what would become of him in a moment’s time, but it wouldn’t do for the plot to fail all because a piece of fluff put him off eating it.

Hellebore walked past. Ambrose had to pull a leg up, now fully crouched like a monk in prayer within the alcove. As she passed his hiding spot, he dropped the hexed tomato in with the rest.

It bounced a little. Hellebore looked, but she didn’t notice the extra. Emery had, though. His gaze sharpened, then flitted away.

Hellebore continued to the end of the sarcophagus and put everything down where it had been to begin with.

Morcant said, “It is late, and these rites can be quite tiring. I will not keep you any longer. However, I want to say one last congratulations to the new initiates.” The current guild members clapped, except Emery.

“I also want to thank our current esteemed guild members for attending.” More clapping.

“And one last thing before I bid you goodnight; as I said, the rite is tiring, so be sure to eat something and drink lots of water when you get to your dorms. In fact, if you’re feeling peckish, feel free to help yourself.

” He gestured to the punnet of tomatoes.

Ambrose’s heart, which had only resumed beating recently, stopped. He shot a glance toward Emery, who looked equally paralyzed.

Perhaps no one would take Morcant up on it. They weren’t exactly a common snack.

Saoirse said, “Oh, go on, then.”

Emery could give no indication what he wanted Ambrose to do without alerting the others.

There was only a split second to react. The tomatoes had rolled around.

Ambrose didn’t know which was hexed. With perhaps seven tomatoes in there, the chances were low but not negligible.

He could wait and hope by chance the girl didn’t pick the wrong one, or he could intervene.

Ambrose set his jaw. He’d failed to be the hero he hoped in one era, but—accident or not—he would not play accomplice to the death of a young girl.

As she reached for the punnet, Ambrose lunged from his hiding spot.

They were close enough he didn’t need to reach far.

He knocked the punnet away and sent the cherry tomatoes flying and rolling across the ground.

Saoirse yelped. Morcant whipped around, as if expecting someone behind him who’d played a silly prank.

Emery was all the way on the other side of the tomb, and Ambrose had recoiled back into the corner.

Shaking his head, Morcant said, “Perhaps your rite was so successful you called a spirit into the tomb. One which hates tomatoes, evidently.”

Saoirse laughed nervously, as did the other initiates.

“No matter.” Morcant leaned down, picking up one of the least bruised tomatoes. He opened a hip flask and whispered an incantation to clean it. A hygiene spell. “There, good as new,” he said, holding it out to Saoirse.

It happened too quickly. There was nothing Ambrose could do.

Saoirse held up her hands. “Thank you. I’m all right.”

Morcant shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he popped the tomato into his own mouth.

The sickening pop of it between his teeth evoked both nauseated disgust and anxiety as Ambrose prepared, not for the first time, to watch a ma n die. Provided that tomato had been the hexed one, Morcant’s heart would stop.

Morcant swallowed. Everything appeared normal at first. Then he started to choke. He held his chest, coughing into his fist.

Hellebore said, “Dad?”

He coughed again, hoarser this time. Ambrose looked past him to the man responsible. Emery’s expression betrayed nothing, watching as if from afar. While Hellebore slapped her father on the back, and the other initiates hovered like flies worrying a fresh carcass, Emery hung back.

Morcant gave one more throat-rending cough, as though trying to expel his very soul, then stopped. He swallowed. Wiped at his mouth. Straightening up, he gave his chest a couple thumps, but otherwise he appeared—to Ambrose’s eyes—entirely hale and whole. Fully recovered.

Had it been the incorrect tomato? Had he nearly choked on an unhexed one?

Ambrose didn’t know whether to appreciate the irony or suspect it.

“Are you all right?” Hellebore asked.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Morcant waved her away. “But perhaps these tomatoes are best left to the grave. Go on, everyone, I’ll be fine. Hellebore, would you help me clean up?”

The initiates gratefully dispersed. As they filed up the stairs, Ambrose started to pad in that direction as well, but as he did, he noticed Morcant pause while bending to pick up a tomato. He was staring at the sarcophagus Ambrose had been hiding on top of.

Ambrose saw what caught his attention. A dark red smear on the stone, directly on the spot where Ambrose had sat.

Blood.

It took a moment for the spinning gears of his mind to catch up. He was not injured. He hadn’t sat in anything. His fears had just caught up to him.

The abilities bestowed upon him by the witch king, they were permanent, but the transformation of his body, apparently, was not.