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With all she’d experienced in these last days, her explanation still sounded odd. Like something out of a faery story. But then, she was in a faery story, wasn’t she?
Jamys never blinked. “I’ve been studying the ancient writings. Searching Niamh’s archives. The only thing that’ll send Asher back is fulfillment of the molleth.”
“A molleth?” Her stomach fluttered. Just the word sounded threatening.
“A curse,” he answered. “In this case, the curse placed upon the reliquary when it was created. To reforge the seals, you need the blood sacrifice of the one who violated the casket. Conor’s told us the soldier who freed Asher has died.”
The fluttering froze to an icy knot. “So the molleth can’t be fulfilled? There’s no way to stop Asher?”
“No. Only the blood of the trespasser or one who carries his blood will work. And Conor’s told us the man died without heirs.”
The pieces fell together, the picture they created making Ellery sick. She’d been a fool to ever think she had the upper hand with Conor. He’d been using her since the night they met. And in a week, he meant to use her one last time. She was the bait and the trap.
You should be very afraid, he’d warned her. Well, if she hadn’t been before, she certainly was now.
Blood roared in her ears. The blood that Conor needed. She pushed back from the table, ignoring Jamys’s look of surprise. She was no lamb to be led to slaughter. She’d leave. Today. And Conor would need to find another way to destroy Asher. Another cat’s paw to dupe.
Ellery rolled her borrowed clothes, a knife she’d secreted from the dining room, and a small bit of food she’d been able to sneak out of dinner into a shawl, securing the corners and creating a bundle. Then thought better of it and took the dinner knife back out. She’d keep that close by in case she needed it.
Once clear of Daggerfell, she’d head for London. Or perhaps Bristol. Maybe take ship for America. Brazil. Anywhere Conor Bligh and his damned fey madness wasn’t. If only she’d kept hold of that blasted pearl, it would have been easy paying her way. But it didn’t bear thinking on. She didn’t have the pearl.
She cringed, understanding now why Conor had kept his distance. How he must have been laughing at her. The poor besotted twit serving herself up for him on a platter. What other secrets was Conor keeping? Or anyone else for that matter. Did they all know she was doomed to die in a few days’ time? Was that the meaning of the looks that passed between the family? Had everyone’s kindness been a sham? She gave a thought for poor dead Glynnis and her warnings. Was she the only one telling the truth? And, God forbid, was that why she died?
How far would Conor go to secure his needed sacrifice? The questions slammed against her mind from all sides until her temples throbbed with them.
Ellery scanned the room one last time. At the fashionable furnishings, the heavy blankets upon her bed, the fire in the grate. She doubted she’d see such luxuries again. With what money remained to her, a garret in some East End tenement was all she’d afford if she were lucky.
A damp chill had stolen in with the setting of the sun, replacing the unseasonable spring weather they’d been enjoying. She pulled Conor’s greatcoat out of the back of the clothespress. It was enormous, but it was warm. And she could sell it once the weather changed for good. Serve him right.
Low voices carried from farther up the corridor, but her way was clear, the servants’ stair lit only by a thin taper as she slipped down toward the kitchens. Once in the passages beneath the house, she wound her way past storerooms and sculleries to a back door secured by an iron bar. Heavy, but not impossible to lift.
The back kitchen gardens were dark, darker than she’d imagined when she contemplated her flight in her well-lit bedchamber. But it was impossible to go back. She wouldn’t remain a guest—or a prisoner—at Daggerfell any longer. Hitching her pack higher on her shoulder, she ignored the fear that sliced through her, warning her she was leaving one threat to face another.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Conor, you fool. You never told her?”
Gram’s look of frustrated disbelief wasn’t helping his temper. Or his search. Morgan had gone to Ellery’s rooms that night to check on her. Since Simon’s attack, Morgan had made a point of stopping in for a few moments to chat. Make sure Ellery was safe.
But tonight her bedchamber had been dark save for a few glowing embers amid the ash in the hearth. Her bed empty. Unslept in. And Ellery was gone.
Morgan had come straight to Conor.
He’d searched the house—twice, his heart racing, a clammy churning in his stomach. Asher. Or Simon. It had to be. Then he’d run across Jamys and Gram. And everything came clear.
“I didn’t see a need to tell her,” he answered, raking a hand through his hair. “I’d already made up my mind to keep her as far from Ilcum Bledh as possible. What would telling her have done, but frighten her?”
“And your silence was so reassuring,” Morgan bit back.
“It’s all my fault,” Jamys groaned from his seat, his head between his hands.
Gram shook her head, her initial burst of anger settling into resignation. “What’s done is beyond our words to mend. She must be found. And quickly.”
“I’m such a simpleton.” Jamys pressed his thumbs to his closed eyes, his shoulders slumped with fatigue and guilt. “I should have known. And me running on without a thought in my head.”
“It’s not your fault,” Conor argued, “it’s mine. And now it’s up to me to get her back.”
