Witchcraft was an old profession, and whilst sorcerers had arisen as enlightenment crossed the nation, and the study of magic and thaumaturgy began to be deemed acceptable, there were still witches out there practicing their blood magics.
He’d never encountered one before, but he knew a little about blood magic. If a witch could bind herself to enough souls, there was a possibility her life might be extended.
And if so, then it was highly likely she was still out there.
Somewhere.
“Thank you ever so much,” Lady Willoughby gushed, clasping Edwina’s hand again. “You cannot know how grateful I am.”
“We are,” Willoughby broke in. His cheeks flushed with ruddy color. “I do hope that we can repay you in some?—”
“Absolutely not,” Edwina said. “The Order of the Dawn Star serves the queen and our country. This is what we do.”
“But….” Sterling broke in. “You do serve in the House of Lords, do you not?”
Willoughby blinked. And then his expression tightened. “I do.”
“I ask nothing of you but your abstinence then,” Sterling said swiftly, reading trouble in his lordship’s frown. “As you know, there is a growing movement of voices in London who do not understand sorcery. My father is one of them, but his voice holds a lot of sway among certain members of the aristocracy. Should a bill ever pass through the House of Lords, calling for our order to be disbanded, I only ask that you consider your wife’s good health, and remember the good that we have done.”
Willoughby considered it. “Of course.” He spared his wife a faint smile. “It is little payment enough, but you have my word, Reed. If a vote is ever presented, I shall abstain.”
“Where next?” Sterling asked, as they left the manor.
“The cemetery,” Edwina whispered, setting off toward the church and the small graveyard there.
He couldn’t quite fathom where her mind was at right now, but he followed along behind her, breathing a sigh of relief as the moon shone down upon her familiar silvery hair.
The cemetery gate squeaked, and then she was moving among the tombstones, looking at their pale faces.
“Edwina? What are you doing?” he murmured.
She paused, and then she moved toward a little tombstone in the back of the cemetery, which was somewhat overgrown with weeds. “There she is.”
“She?” He caught a glimpse of the name on the stone. Ah.
Clare Worthington.
Born 1834—Died 1851.
Beloved daughter of Moira Worthington.
Tugging out the weeds that blotted out the grave, she swiftly neatened it, and then sat there on her knees.
He sat beside her. “You felt sorry for her.”
There was a tear slowly working its way down her cheek. “She was just a girl, Sterling. Perhaps a maid at the manor. One who caught the eye of a powerful man. It’s a tale as old as time.”
Gently, he rested his hand over hers. “But she had you, Edwina. You let her move on. She’s at peace now.”
Edwina dashed the tears away. “I know. I just wish there was something more I could have done for her.”
Her sense of empathy frequently floored him. It was moments like these that remined him why he’d fallen in love with her all those years ago.
Moving to her knees, she parted the soil of the grave with a single word. And then she dropped the ring inside the small pocket of ground and covered it over, until barely a disturbance remained.
“Is that entirely wise?”
“The curse is broken. The ring is inert. And if the Willoughby’s don’t want it…. Well. It belonged to her more than anyone.”
