Page 88 of The Duchess Curse

She nodded, pleased. Clearly he felt so secure after a fortnight of no attacks that he was willing to let her go off on her own. As she and Ndege slipped through a back door in the office, she heard the beginnings of a conversation.

“What do you need, friend?”

“Do they have curses in Buganda? Or anywhere you’ve traveled to?”

“Curses?” Ndege asked, one graceful brow arched high.

What was Bran up to? Guin shrugged and followed her friend into the dark warehouse.

Ndege looked around cautiously, then she glamoured a fairy orb to follow them about. They’d known one another for years before the woman had trusted Guin enough to use her magic, and Guin would rather eat the muck off the London streets than betray her friend and see her hang. The laws were quite clear, only transcendent men performed magic in England. And if anyone wished to enter their borders and use magic from a different land, it would be considered a hanging offense. Having a queen and a talented marchioness had not changed that, unfortunately. All that barbarity was still used simply to prop up the lie that only titled, British men were capable of magic.

Ndege’s fairy light illuminated a variety of interesting specimens, and Guin picked through them.

“May I ask you a question?” Guin said.

“Yes, please.” Ndege’s face was thoughtful in the orb light.

“In all your travels, have you come across a potion that enhances transcendent power, allows it to be used when there is no light? Like an alchemist’s inner heat?”

“Oh yes, there are those who make and sell such things, but I do not tamper with them. I possess no recipe. But I can look for one, if you’d like, next time we leave these shores.”

“Yes, please.”

A half hour later, Guin met Bran in front of the coach, holding a small wooden box.

“What’s that?” Bran asked, opening the door and helping her up.

She settled on the forward-facing seat, and after giving the driver their next destination, Bran sat next to her and the coach took off.

“What’s in the box?” he asked, his thigh brushing against hers.

She opened it. “Ndege does not trade in ivory, but she—ahem—intercepted a trader who does, commandeered their ship and their wares, and put him out of business. She could not save the elephants who’d already been killed, and she does not want to sell their tusks, but she gave me this. She thought I might honor the poor dead beasts by doing something useful with their remains.”

Inside the silk-lined box were two long, curved tusks.

“You’ve never used ivory before,” Bran said.

She closed the box. “No. But what the queen is asking for does not exist, so far as I know. I may need to utilize ingredients I’ve never used before. Though, I hope the ivory proves unsatisfactory. I would hate to give men more reasons to part those poor animals from their lives.”

In Soho, they met with a woman who’d emigrated from Greece to England in her youth. Mrs. Ariti’s sons owned a butcher shop, and her personal garden was lush and plentiful, even in winter. She gave Guin trimmings from anything she grew in exchange for potions to help soothe her joints. Mrs. Ariti was ninety years old, stooped, and wore a long gray braid coiled around her head. Her eyes were sharp and clear, and she leaned on Bran as she guided them through her garden.

Guin dallied behind them, taking her time to pick what she liked. And listening to the conversation happening on the path in front of her.

“Curses?” Mrs. Ariti said. “No such thing. You know that, dear boy.”

Bran pushed his hood back, and his glamour still hadn’t taken over, even though the sun shone warm and high above them, cutting through the February chill. “I know someone who thinks she’s cursed. I’d never heard of them being real, but there’s more in this world than I know of.”

Mrs. Ariti patted his arm. “That’s a healthy… Why does she think…” She spoke half in English and half in Greek, and Guin couldn’t parse out the Greek bits.

Bran never had any trouble, though. He cut a glance at Guin over his shoulder and replied to Mrs. Ariti fully in Greek.

Fine. She didn’t want to eavesdrop anyway.

By the time they got back into the coach, Guin was curious, though. She set her parcels—a new breed of olive tree and a basket of Cretan rockrose—in the bottom of the coach and said, “What are you doing, Bran?”

He sat next to her, and the coach set off. “What I always do. Following you about.”

“No, I mean the questions about curses.”