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Pressing my fingertips to the ground, I let my magic seep from me, tendrils slithering across the stone, poking and prying, looking for a way to connect with Dame Nature, to call on my goddess for strength, for guidance.
Ground my roots; I am yours to guide.
Show me the way through this, show me the way to him.
The air remains still, stagnant. My prayer goes unanswered.
It hurts to swallow. I lift my hands to my scar, wincing at the tenderness there.
My fingers come away sticky.
Movement in the corner of my cell catches my eye.
The matron stands there. Watching. Close enough that I can—
I lunge at her, only to smack into an invisible barrier.
“Come now, Gwynnevere,” she says, voice as sharp as the blade dangling from her hand. “Have you forgotten all of our tricks?”
“What have you done to me?” I rasp.
“Nothing.”
“Stop lying to me.”
“I am many things,” she says, smiling. “But I am not a liar.”
She lifts the dagger. Blood gleams in the lantern light.
“I tried to take your head for good this time, but I wasn’t able to succeed. It looks like Death’s blessing has made you impervious to another beheading.” She laughs. “Though I suppose that means I won’t have to worry about you killing yourself once we put you back to work.”
Something unfurls beneath my skin. Furious. Unforgiving.
“You tried to make me believe I was the monster,” I say, staggering away from her. “For back-talking and protesting. For my resurrection and having this scar—a constant reminder of your cruelty.” I’m right against the cell door, leaning against it for support. “You said everything about me terrified the witchlings.” I slide to the ground and pull my knees to my chest. “But it was me who dried their tears after you and your favorites beat them into submission. I was never the monster scaring the witchlings.” I glare at her. “You were.”
I snatch the mystglove petal from the ground and shove it into my mouth.
I’m lifted into the air again, choked by an invisible force, unable to swallow the petal and claim its properties as my own.
I claw at the non-existent hand wrapped around my throat, desperate for relief.
The cell rattles.
She releases me.
I hit the ground hard, screaming as my shoulder dislodges.
Roots explode through stone, writhing and alive, lashing around the matron’s ankles, her wrists, her throat. She’s screaming, completely suspended in the air, limbs stretched outward in four points.
“That’s enough, Gwynnevere,” she howls, but I’m not the one controlling these roots.
I’m not the one who’s making them wrap around her mouth, forcing her into silence.
I haven’t—
By Dagny, they’re wrapping around me now.
Although they’re… gentler with me.
