“STOP LYING TO ME!”
I stare at him, at the burn of witch-ash in his eyes, at his crystal clear conviction that no matter what I say, I am guilty, I am a murderer, I am a liar.
I am one of the little thieves, and he will send me to the gallows himself.
I don’t know how I ever thought I could trust him. I don’t know why I thought I might—
He was right about one thing last night: It was nice, for a moment, to not be the only fool.
A drop of blood slides over my fingers, the ones wrapped around his left wrist. I see beads of witch-ash oil still marbling his knuckles.
I have to get out, whatever it takes.
I yank his hand closer and flick my tongue over his bloody palm.
It has two immediate effects: One, Emeric goes completely still, gazing down at me not with anger, but something I don’t think either of us know, a sudden, stunned desperation.
Two: A thorn of juniper oil sizzles in my mouth, tempered in gritty witch-ash and the tang of blood.
I feel the ash dissolve to lightning in my teeth. I’m not trained in the methods to properly cast magic, but power is power. The cantrips and rituals just make it stronger, lessen the kickback, grease the wheels.
So I glare up at Emeric and gasp,“Piss off.”
And the magic does the rest.
There’s acrack. He’s thrown off, but I don’t see where he lands, because the kickback hits like a sucker punch. I roll onto my knees just in time to vomit into the snow, a fever and a chill ramming down my veins and turning my muscles to little better than wet clay. Belatedly, I remember Emeric mentioning something about the potency of the prefects’ witch-ash, but it’s too late for takebacks now.
I make myself stand and stagger up the stairs, wheezing, braids swinging, tides of gray ebbing in my vision. My hat is gone, and if my satchel hadn’t been buttoned up, I would have lost everything in it too.
I think I twisted my ankle because it keeps twinging, but I can’t stop, can’t stop, if I stop he’ll catch me, if I stop it’ll be the lash all over again.
Ragne is still a soft heap of fur on the icy steps. I scoop her up and force my burning legs to carry us the rest of the way to the viaduct. Carts and carriages rattle past, wheels clattering against the stone. I walk as fast as I can until at least I’ve caught my breath a little, then I make myself run again, trying to keep clear of icy patches. I keep looking back, but I can’t see Emeric on my trail.
Some tiny part of me can’t help worrying I might have seriously hurt him. I don’t know what I’m doing with magic, I just wanted him to let go, what if—
It’s the same part of me that just wanted Dame von Falbirg, Death, Fortune,anyoneto treat me as a daughter. It’s the lantern at the crossroads, stealing away into the dark. Nothing waits for me down that road.
The world narrows to my thudding heartbeat, my lungs on fire, step after step after painful step.
And then I make it. I see the wooden sign, the painted daisies that suddenly make sense. Gisele always loved daisies best.
I don’t notice how quiet the Gänslinghaus is when I pound on the door. How the only faces peering out windows are on the second floor.
The door swings open. Gisele is there, pale and tense. “What—”
“Help me, please,” I nearly sob. “I need somewhere to hide.”
Gisele glances off to the side, then nods. “Come in.”
“Thank you, I’m so sorry, it’s just, just until Ragne wakes up . . .” I nearly trip over the doorstep. The warmth of the front room is such a relief I want to cry, so warm my fingers burn coming in from the cold.
So warm I miss the clinging dusty misfortune dimming my sight.
“What’s wrong with Ragne?” Gisele’s voice sharpens as the door closes behind us.
Then I hear a deadbolt slide into place.
“Nothing.” Emeric’s voice rasps across the room.
