“But you must not be very good at it if you can’t even break your own curse. Unless you enjoy parading about as a bear every four weeks.”
If she’d hoped to induce irritation, Fitcher’s reaction was unsatisfactory. “Different curses have different requirements,” he said simply.
“What does breaking your curse require?”
“The magic of all seven gods.”
Mallory leaned back in surprise. “Oh. And so far, you have…”
“Only Constantino, blessed by Tyrr.” Then he added grumpily, “Thus far, my choices have been limited.” He leaned his elbows on his thighs, steepling his fingers. “It is true that I would like to be free of the curse that binds me, but it is far more complicated than that. This is not a selfish request. If I fail, many lives will be lost.”
“Really? Whose?”
“Innocent people. People who should not be punished for my failures.”
Mallory smirked at Constantino. “He’s doing that cryptic thing you mentioned.”
“You get used to it,” he said. “Can I see your tattoo? Or is it someplace where we’d have to get to know each other better first?”
Mallory swallowed hard and reached for the high collar of her dress.
“Mallory,” Anaïs breathed. “You don’t have to show anyone. It is none of their business.”
But maybe she did. It was proof, anyway.
Proof that, this once, she wasn’t lying. Notentirely.
She undid the top three buttons. Hands shaking, she pulled down the collar to reveal the pale skin of her clavicle.
Constantino hissed in surprise. Fitcher did not, though his gaze darkened with curiosity.
Mallory had not looked in a mirror recently, but she had some idea of what they were seeing. A mark reminiscent of an hourglass, smaller than a wasp. It was not gold like Constantino’s arrow… or the hourglass that had appeared on the nape of her sister’s neck the day the veil fell.
Mallory’s mark was different. Blackened like charred flesh. Wet, shiny, bloody. A festering wound. She assumed it had gotten worse since the last time she’d seen it, as the cool air made it sting more than usual.
“What’s wrong with it?” Constantino asked. He looked to Fitcher. “Are we sure that’s Velos’s mark?”
“Of course it is,” Mallory said, hastily buttoning her collar up to her throat. “You think I would do that to myself?”
“But why is it—”
“Corrupted,” Fitcher said, sounding suspicious. “How did you receive this blessing?”
“I didn’t steal it if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You aren’t telling us something.”
Anaïs studied her own interlocked fingers. No doubt reliving that night, and the horrors they’d seen.
“What do you care?” Mallory snapped, growing irate. “The mark doesn’t need to be pretty. It is the mark of Velos, and because of it, I can see and talk to ghosts. Do you want it or not?”
Fitcher hesitated. “I do.”
Mallory’s mind whirred as she considered all the ways this could work to their advantage. Fitcher’s Troupe would take them far away from Comorre, perhaps out of Lysraux altogether.Travel. Shelter. Money. And when she and Anaïs were safe, they could vanish into some busy city, Fitcher and his curse be damned.
“Well, then,” said Fitcher, stoking the fire. “This is convenient. We will not need to return to Morant. Perhaps we shall next investigate those rumors of a bog witch who is kidnapping children in the Stivalen countryside.”
“Ah, my old stomping grounds,” said Constantino, with fake wistfulness. “Wonder if I know her.” His tone darkened. “Sounds like someone who would get on with my brother.”
