Page 13

“Is that what that means?” Reed chuckled.

“She’s rumored to be the Duke’s personal assassin, though you can’t believe most of what drunks say, especially after they’ve lost a bet.

No one knows her real name, and I hear she likes to keep it that way.

” He let out a low whistle. “One thing’s for certain.

Whatever she does, the Duke is behind it. ”

The Duke? He resided farther north in Alder Bay, only a few days journey by carriage. “Would you happen to know where she lives, this Death’s Kiss assassin?”

He shook his head. “Other than possibly in the Duke’s town? No.”

Dulce nearly threw her arms around Reed in gratitude for returning to her home.

Straightening, she folded her hands in front of her and said aloud to herself, “We’ll need to travel to Alder Bay. I can’t take my carriage or horses—they’re too recognizable….”

Reed cocked his head and folded his arms once more. “What exactly do you mean we ?”

“Someone has to stay here to look after the manor and the Tree of Life,” Dulce said.

“And, though it pains me to admit it, it would be unwise for me to travel alone. My task would benefit from the assistance of one more, a guard in a sense … daring and more worldly than myself—it would be utter foolishness to deny this fact.” Before he could say anything, Dulce hurried on, “You say you have nowhere to go. I’ll pay you. Handsomely .”

“Did you not hear me?” Reed frowned. “La Bisou Morte works for the Duke .”

“The Duke is a pompous ass who responds to wealth.” Dulce waved a hand. “Greed and prestige drive him. These are obstacles we can work with if we must.”

The sound of carriages approaching along the road filled the air, and Reed stilled. Company was drawing nearer to her manor with each passing second.

“The enforcers know it was your things I stole.” Reed winced. “I should’ve realized they would want to discuss the robbery with the grieving widower. I suppose this won’t go well, seeing as he’s now lying in your grave. ”

There was no time to formulate an elaborate plan, so Dulce went with the first desperate idea that came into her head. “Come with me.” She grasped Reed’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the cemetery where her staff stood staring at her in surprise.

“Take Reed into the manor and hide him,” she instructed Vesta, before the woman could say a word. She hurried to replace the flowers atop her grave. “He’s the man who saved me.”

That got their attention.

“Yes, Reed Hawthorne at your service.” He bowed with a smirk even though they were running out of time.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” Dulce continued. “This is Vesta.” She then turned to the other two. “Sylvan and Lucas, since you’re finished here, continue to pick weeds and look busy gardening.”

“And you?” Sylvan furrowed his brow, appearing worried as the bell was rung, the sounds of horses at the gate. “Where will you be?”

“Ensuring that Cornelius makes an appearance shortly.”

Reed glanced over his shoulder at her, his immaculate obsidian brow raised again as he followed Vesta, but she ignored him.

Darting toward the conservatory, her fingers fumbled with the padlock, but she finally ripped it free.

She leapt through the door and yanked open a cabinet, glass clinking against glass, until she found the jar she wanted.

Tipping it back against her lips, Dulce swallowed the bitter potion.

“Come on,” Dulce begged, her gaze trained on her hands as she focused on molding them. “Work faster.”

A relieved sigh escaped her when her hands lengthened, thickened, the now-revolting shape of Cornelius’s fingers forming.

Dulce lifted the handheld mirror, her reflection that of a man she once thought of as handsome with hazel eyes, chestnut hair, and chiseled features.

She was the spitting image of her dead bastard husband.

Locking the conservatory, she hurried to meet the enforcer’s carriage at her gate.

“Mr. Hale, I presume,” a man with a dark curling mustache said, coming to attention before the carriage.

“My name’s Enoch, and I’m one of the enforcers.

” She thought he might bow, but instead he took off his hat, appearing sheepish.

Another dark-haired enforcer remained atop the driver’s seat, holding the horses’ reins, his gaze straight ahead as if ordered to do so.

Dulce could look like anyone, but she couldn’t speak as them, so this could pose a problem. She cleared her throat, and in the deepest, raspiest voice she could muster, she sputtered impatiently, “I’m unwell and not feeling myself. What is the meaning of this, this disturbance?”

“We’d like to inform you that your wife’s grave has been disturbed.”

She glowered. “Impossible. What nonsense are you spewing?”

“Two pieces of her jewelry were stolen,” Enoch started. “The thief was caught, but he, uh, there was a fire at the jail and he … seems to have escaped in the ensuing chaos.”

“Tales of your department’s incompetence are none of my concern,” Dulce snapped, much like the time Cornelius himself did when the horses’ hay was delivered late once. “If you’re here to petition my house for coin, you’ll find me less than amused by your methods.”

“Your wife’s ring and necklace were destroyed in the fire.” He sighed.

“Do not speak of my poor wife,” she croaked, then let out a sob that sounded true as she imagined how her mother would reprimand her over allowing a family heirloom to melt in a fire.

“A member of my devoted staff has remained by her graveside since the moment she was laid to rest and will continue to do so until further notice. If it’s graverobbers you concerned yourself over, go and concern yourself elsewhere. That is all.”

Dulce turned to leave, but the enforcer had more courage—or wits—than she expected.

“May I have a look at the gravesite?” Enoch asked, halting her movement.

“If you must.” Dulce opened the gate with exaggerated sadness, sighing and muttering about harassment in the time of grief for good measure.

She led the enforcer through the gardens to the back of the manor where Lucas was gathering weeds into a basket beside Sylvan, the two shovels no longer in sight. Both men stood and nodded respectfully to the enforcer, removing their hats and staring at the ground, the picture of forlorn servants.

As the three of them watched, the man knelt in front of Dulce’s grave and pressed his fingers to the dirt. He lifted a handful of soil, then let the granules drift slowly from his palm. She held her breath, praying he wouldn’t demand that the body within be exhumed.

“May your wife rest in peace,” Enoch finally said, standing .

Exuding indignation, Dulce walked the enforcer to his carriage in silence. As Enoch stepped inside, he studied her with a frown, and Dulce’s heart hammered at the thought that he somehow recognized her, but he only shook his head before shutting the door.

Once the carriage vanished from sight, she hurried to the manor, still wearing Cornelius’s form in case the enforcers were to turn around. “Vesta!” she shouted once she entered the comforting walls of her home. “They’re gone.”

The woman rushed down the marble staircase and her lips parted in bewilderment.

“What is it?” Dulce asked.

“Your lips are showing,” she whispered as though the enforcers could somehow hear the secret exchange.

“Drat.” At least the image of Cornelius had held long enough to get the enforcers to depart the property.

“I left Mr. Hawthorne in the attic.”

“Thank you.” As Dulce took a sage leaf from her pocket, she told Vesta the rest of the story about the witch—La Bisou Morte—her mother’s letter, and what would happen if she couldn’t find the woman to break the curse.

“You will break the curse.” Vesta wrapped her in a warm embrace. “I know you can do it, Dulce.”

“I’ll continue to study Mother’s spell book. There is still so much to learn.” Perhaps there was an answer she would find.

“You are your mother’s daughter,” Vesta reassured her. “There is nothing you cannot do once you put your mind to it.”

Dulce smiled wistfully and ascended the staircase. Once she drew open the attic door, she found Reed peering out the window.

“That doesn’t qualify as hiding,” she called.

Reed spun to face her, his eyes wide as saucers. “I saw you down there. You used a spell .”

“Do you believe in witches now that you know I’m one?”

“You’ve opened my eyes to magic.” Reed trailed a forefinger across his lower lip, his smile crooked in a way that made Dulce avert her stare. “You pulled off looking like your husband well. At least from the glimpse I saw of his bloody corpse.”

“Lumpish pignut is the preferred term,” she clarified. “Now, have you seen enough that you’ll accompany me to Alder Bay, or do you need more proof of magic?”

Reed contemplated the ceiling, the light from the window falling across his smooth neck, and she turned her gaze away once again. “In addition to payment,” he said finally. “I want you to teach me how to alter my looks the way you did.”

Dulce grinned. “Then we have a deal, Mr. Hawthorne.”