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“A good thing you’re not the Queen, Maddie. Imagine what a mess you’d be.”
The enchantment pressing on my mind insists that she’s right about everything and that it’s good. I never wanted to be a witch, let alone a Queen. Never wanted to use others or rule them. Uncle was right to lock me up and not let me see people, punish me whenever he decided I thought of magic—or boys, and how does that fit together?
Another part of me is furious. I had a right to know all this. A right to train my magic. To make my own decisions. Informed decisions.
Then again, who’s to say that I’m not who I am today because of how I was brought up? My distrust for magic, for power, it all comes from the way I was raised. I would never use the boys the way she’s doing, never ever plan on hurting them, much less killing them to gain power.
But what good does it do if I don’t have the training and the power to stop Ophelia and help them?
Leaving her room, I feel some of the oppressive weight lift. The more distance I put between us, the lighter I feel, so instead of entering my room, I keep walking past it, down the stairs, out of the building.
Night has fallen.
Outside, my head feels clearer. The crisp, cold air helps, too. I look up at the clouds covering the stars and the moon. It feels like snow. It’s almost solstice, I think.
Tomorrow.
The solstice and the full moon of gold that comes once every century. A time of magic and power.
A time of changes and risks.
How can I rid myself of Ophelia’s spell? How can I find my power at the last moment to change everything?
An oracle, I think. Vanessa said I spoke of one.
The boys’ dormitory is across from me, rising high, many of the windows lit. It almost looks like a cubic Christmas tree. My steps carry me down the path to its entrance and then up the stone-carved, spiral staircase, up and up to a familiar corridor.
I trail my hand over the doors, one after another, and stop at one with intricate carvings.
Sindri’s room.
It must be locked, I think, but when I turn the handle, I feel his magic and it greets me with a whisper in my ear—my name, bidding me welcome—and the lock clicks open.
I enter, close the door behind me.
The place smells of Sindri—his scent of wind and lightning, of snow and flowers.
But it’s also in my mind, I realize—not really a scent but the signature of his magic, a faint texture, a gentle brush over my mind and skin.
I can picture him sprawled in his armchair, blue and black hair falling in his eyes. I swallow hard and walk past it, toward his other furniture. The desk, I think, the desk was the one telling me what to do, how to protect Sindri.
A mission in which I failed.
“Hi, desk,” I whisper. “Remember me? Want to tell me what to do next? Any ideas?”
But the wood is silent and I feel oddly judged. With good reason, and maybe it’s all my guilty conscience, but still.
A very judgy wood.
“Please,” I say. “I’m sorry I failed to protect Sindri. I’m trying to find a way to stop Ophelia. To save the boys. Please, give me a clue. This time I’ll try harder.”
No reply. It’s a very wooden silence. I think the desk is pissed at me.
“Fine. Be that way,” I mutter, putting as much Sindri-ness in my voice as possible. “I don’t need your help.”
I pass by the mirror, my reflection seeming to stare at me, making me shiver, and trail my hand over the closet.
It trembles under my palm and I jerk back, stumbling over my own two feet.
