Page 17

I never left. I merely did not wish to exacerbate your shame by bearing witness to it. I withdrew for a time, but I am here now.

Ambrose didn’t know how to place the feelings that dredged up.

The sentiment was not misplaced. Ambrose hadn’t wanted anyone to see him like that.

Or rather, most anyone. The witch king was not just anyone, though; he was the only one entrusted with the knowledge of who Ambrose really was, and so the only one from whom he’d accept comfort.

He was being too sensitive. There were better things to put his mind to.

His duty was to prepare the statue for its collision course with Morcant’s skull, but first, he searched for Hellebore.

He found her at Saoirse’s stand, where she’d put together handcrafted jewelry using a variety of boldly colored beads, some bearing the aura of magical enchantment.

Saoirse’s aura wasn’t nearly so bright. She was dressed in plain clothes today, speaking demurely to those who expressed interest in her wares.

Hellebore hip-checked her in greeting. “These look great. Overachiever.”

“Thanks, my grandma taught me how to make these.” Saoirse’s smile flickered brighter, but it was still a pale imitation of her usual.

When the woman making a purchase moved on, Hellebore said, “What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

Ambrose crept closer. Hellebore wore a dress instead of robes today, which might have foiled his hopes of finding the hex focus, but she had a leather satchel over one shoulder.

He’d need the perfect opportunity to search it without her notice. He could phase through it, but if she moved too much, it would be difficult to maintain the magic without giving her some sense of his presence.

“I mean that you’re quiet lately and dressing like you’re going to a funeral, which is my thing,” Hellebore said.

Ambrose didn’t know her well, but he could have sworn the jibe was playful. Friendly rather than cutting.

Saoirse worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sorry me. What happened?”

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“I won’t leave you alone until you do. Give me the gossip.”

Definitely friendly.

“I don’t want to talk shite about your da ,” Saoirse finally admitted.

“Oh, but he’s my favorite person to talk shit about.” Hellebore’s tone sobered, though. “What did he do?”

“Told me my makeup made me look like a whore.” She shrugged, as though it didn’t bother her, though it clearly did. “Not in so many words, and he was right.”

“He damn well was not. He’s an arsehole,” Hellebore said.

“You’re allowed to think so. You’re his daughter.”

Hellebore frowned. A look of genuine distress fought the usual sardonic smirk she wore. “Here.”

She opened the flap of her handbag, and Ambrose saw it. The hex object—a grubby bundle of hair—vibrated with malevolent magic. It was tucked within an inside pocket.

Hellebore rooted through her bag for something else. Ambrose waited until she’d retrieved what she wanted, then darted his hand in after hers. It phased through the material, magic coursing through his body. He thought Hellebore sensed it, as she shivered like someone had walked over her grave.

He focused, grasping the hex object, its aura—wiry and repulsive in texture—clashing with the signature of the witch king. Methodically, he prized it from her bag the way he’d taken the book from Emery’s chest.

It came free and vanished into his hand.

Hellebore was handing a slim black tube to Saoirse, saying, “This color will look better on you than me,” but Ambrose had already skulked away from their stand, keen to be far from it when Hellebore discovered the stolen hex object.

He aimed to take it straight to Emery. It was easy to find him. He could follow the smell of cinnamon buns, but aside from that, the tether made his proximity feel tangible, like he was the tide drawn toward the pull of the moon.

It unsettled him. This was a sensation he’d only associated with the witch king, feelings reserved for one man. It grated against his sense of loyalty to feel them for another.

Emery was boxing a bun for a patron, smiling as he handed it over.

Ambrose had never seen him smile, not with teeth.

Though it was a showman’s smile, a polite smile, it transformed his demeanor from cantankerous to charming, and almost made it possible to ignore the extra leanness to his face and figure after a day of dehydration.

Ambrose waited until the patron had gone before speaking under his breath. “I’m here.”

Emery stiffened. “Shouldn’t you be working on the statue?”

“I found the means to remove the hex placed on you.”

Emery’s expression shifted, then quickly shuttered at the sound of a familiar voice approaching.

Morcant walked with two people, a man and a woman who appeared to be a couple. Modernity had stripped Ambrose of any knowledge of what fashions were reserved for the rich and powerful, but their attitude and body language conveyed well enough that they were influential.

“Georgia makes the most beautiful croissants, Philomena. You must try one,” Morcant was saying at a stand two down from Emery’s.

“They do look lovely, but my nose is leading me this way,” Philomena said. “Something smells like cinnamon.”

She drifted toward the scent which had tormented Ambrose all morning. Emery had said they could eat what was left, but the trays were half empty already. Each bun had a beautiful swirl, glazed with icing sugar, charmed to stay warm and glistening.

Morcant’s and Emery’s eyes met. They looked like feral cats sizing one another up.

Philomena, oblivious to it, said, “These smell incredible.”

“They’re kept warm by an enchantment. Unfortunately necessary, given the weather we’re having.” Emery put on the showman’s smile from earlier, but a twitching muscle in his jaw betrayed his nerves.

“Very rude of it to rain,” Philomena agreed. “And on a day of charity! I tell you, I was going to make a full round of the market before making any decisions, but if I come back and these have run out, I’ll have to wear all black in mourning. We’ll take two, won’t we, dear?”

“As you like, love,” said her husband.

“An excellent choice,” Morcant said. “Emery was one of my top students. He has an excellent memory for recipes. Never gets them wrong.”

Morcant sounded complimentary, but something, perhaps the use of past tense— Emery was one of my top students —made Emery’s smile falter. The tongs shook as he placed each cinnamon bun in a paper box.

“I could hold them here for you, if you wanted to finish your rounds and eat them later? They’ll stay fresh and warm, so there’s no rush.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” Philomena said. “But it’s unbecoming for a woman to walk around a market drooling.”

Emery’s eyes darted once to Morcant, then he handed over the box.

Before he could accept Philomena’s money, Morcant said, “Oh, allow me,” and pressed the coins into Emery’s hands.

Emery’s knuckle bones strained against his skin, his revulsion at the touch tangible.

An invisible battle waged, a deep-sea struggle where only vague ripples on the surface belied the fury of the combatants. Ambrose only understood it vaguely. Morcant had brought these people here to spoil them, to ingratiate himself to them, but he didn’t want Emery to earn similar goodwill.

“Oh, you’re too kind, you didn’t have to do that!” Philomena said.

Her husband said, “We’ll get the drinks, then.”

Morcant said, “Nonsense, I’m your host today.”

Philomena took her first bite of the cinnamon bun.

An expectant pause followed. In theory, it was the silence of those awaiting a verdict on the taste of the bun. In practice, it felt as though Morcant awaited the announcement of his firstborn son while Emery braced for news of a loved one sent to war.

Philomena chewed once, then froze, cheek stuffed. Her complexion went gray. Then she abruptly turned, coughing and spitting onto the grass.

Her husband sputtered, “My dear, what’s wrong?” Then he gave a yell of alarm.

The masticated piece of bun Philomena had spat on the ground wriggled unpleasantly. It was writhing with maggots.