Stepping up onto the edge of the fountain with the inspector, Bryn said to Radane, “I have a proposal. Instead of intruding on people’s homes and making everyone uncomfortable, why not come into the bakery? You can interview anyone you wish there, with tea and pastries for all who volunteer to speak with you. I’m quite certain that you’ll realize there’s no illegal activity here. Just good people trying to live their lives as best they can.”
“That’s not how this works,” Radane said. “But yes, I will begin my search with your bakery. You’d best hope that I find nothing that isn’t regulation.”
“All are welcome in my bakery,” Bryn said loudly. She shot a glance through the crowd—her eyes met Kiela’s, and then she looked away. Marching through the crowd, she led the inspector toward her bakery, while Kiela retreated down the street at a fast-but-hopefully-innocent walk.
When she made it to the beach, she ran.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kiela ran up the cliff stairs—her sides hurt, her lungs hurt, her legs hurt, and her heart hurt to think that she’d ruined everything. If she hadn’t shared her spells with anyone . . . If she hadn’t experimented on the apple trees . . . If she had just left the books alone . . . But she hadn’t, and now she’d endangered not only herself but Caz, Larran, Bryn, Eadie, Ulina, and possibly everyone else on Caltrey, depending on how hard this inspector decided to come down on the island for harboring a “rogue sorcerer.”
What else would Radane’s investigation expose?
Who else have I endangered?
Panting, she reached the top of the stairs. What about Ivor? He’d said he wanted to talk to her about remedies. She’d assumed he disapproved, but what if she had it backward? He was the island healer. Perhaps he slipped in some illegal “remedies” of his own to save a patient. In Alyssium, it was universally known that no one looked too closely at what healers did so long as they kept healing the rich and powerful, but what about on an island in the outer region? Would they still look away? Radane had specifically mentioned healers, so she might not look away. As an imperial inspector, she had the authority to enforce the laws against non-approved magic use to their fullest. She could call a legion to Caltrey to comb through their houses, observe their activities, question everyone . . . and then levy fines, make arrests, dole out punishments. She could, if she chose, strip Caltrey of every resource and call it justice.
Outside the waterfall, Kiela called, “Ivor!” She bent over, hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. Straightening, she shouted louder, “Ivor!”
He stepped out from behind the spray of water. Wet, his magnificent antlers gleamed. “Who needs help?”
“You do.”
He blinked at her.
“There’s an imperial inspector in town,” she said. “You may have nothing to hide, but if you do . . . hide it.” She turned without waiting for him to reply.
“Kiela, I know what you did for Larran’s merhorse.”
She froze.
And then he said, “It was a true kindness.”
With a nod, Kiela set off toward the greenery. She held her side as she ran. Every breath felt as if it were scraping her throat. She wasn’t used to running. Not much need in the Great Library. She didn’t see the point unless something was chasing you.
Well, now something is.
Consequences.
Consequences were chasing her, and even though a good, upstanding citizen of the empire might choose to face those consequences . . .I have a spider plant, a cactus, and a chicken to think of.
And the books.
She couldn’t let Radane claim the spellbooks. An imperial investigator wasn’t a librarian. Radane wouldn’t know how to care for them, how to protect them, how to return them safely to where they’d be guarded and valued. At best, she’d confiscate them, and they’d languish in a warehouse for illegal magic. At worst, she’d destroy them, deeming them the instrument of illegal activities. She might not believe they were library books. Or care.
It’s not a risk I can take.
Stumbling onto the green in front of the cottage, Kiela collapsed onto her hands and knees. Her voice croaked as she called, “Caz.” She tried again. Louder: “Caz!”
“Meep?”
“Get Caz, please,” she told the cactus as they peered at her from around the side of the cottage. “Tell him it’s an emergency. Tell him . . .”Tell him it’s all gone wrong. Tell him I failed. Tell him I’m sorry.
Before she could say any of it, Caz spurted out over the garden wall and toward her. “What happened? Are you hurt? Oh seeds and soil! You’re dying!”
She shook her head hard. “Radane—she’s an imperial inspector. She knows there’s illegal magic on Caltrey. We have to hide the books.”
“Gah!”
