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“Why not?”
Nox sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “The queen has her own moral compass, if you will. I wouldn’t exactly say that it points due north, but it operates by her own standards. She doesn’t like to murder unnecessarily. Don’t misunderstand me, she’ll take a life without batting an eyelash if she deems it inevitable, but she prefers not to if she can help it. That doesn’t mean she’ll allow you to leave, though.”
“And what about you?” I can’t help but ask. “Does she let you leave?”
Instead of answering, he rolls down his sleeves from where he secured them out of his way earlier when he was mixing the foul potion. He buttons them at the wrists, then reaches for a leather-bound notebook. When he crosses the room and hands it to me, I notice the notebook isn’t black like I first assumed, but a deep scarlet, like blood just before it dries.
I unbind the leather straps securing the notebook, but when I open it, I find the parchment inside is blank. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
He cocks his head to the side. “You can’t write?”
“Of course I can write,” I snap, with a bit too much bite to be entirely believable, but if Nox notices, he doesn’t comment on it.
I can technically write, but it’s effortful, and I’ve been told by the plethora of tutors the King of Dwellen hired on my behalf that my writing is practically illegible. Not only does my script come out with random spaces between the wrong letters, words often find themselves misspelled. The letters have a way of coming out of my brain in one direction and finding themselves in the opposite once the ink touches the page.
“It’s just that I can talk much faster than I write,” I feel the need to explain.
“Perhaps, but if you write down what you know, I’ll be able to refer back to it. Cross-reference it with my own notes.”
I try to pass the notebook back to him, but he keeps his arms crossed. “My handwriting is awful,” I explain. “You’ll be able to read it better if I dictate and you transcribe.”
Nox doesn’t budge. “I have to prepare the mortesalve.”
Ah. The mortesalve. Excellent.
Do I know what mortesalve is?
No.
That doesn’t mean I like the sound of it.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes and open the notebook to the first empty page before holding my palm out expectantly. When he doesn’t move, I say, “Are you going to give me a quill, or do you expect me to transcribe everything I know about the magic with my lifeblood?”
Nox’s nostrils flare a bit, and I comfort myself in the fact that even though I’ve lost this battle, I’ve at least managed to get under his skin. He crosses the room and returns with a quill and ink, but when he holds them out, I don’t take them.
“What now?” he asks.
“I don’t have anywhere to write.”
“You have the notebook.”
“I mean I don’t have a surface to write on,” I say.
“Write on your dais.”
“I can’t write on my dais. I’m sitting on it.”
“Then write on your lap.”
“Can’t. I told you my handwriting is practically illegible. I need a flat surface and something to sit on if you wish to be able to read it.”
Nox inhales, then clears a space for me at the counter he usually uses to prepare his torturous concoctions. I wait for him to pull a stool up to the counter before I prance over and perch upon it, making sure to graze up against him as I do.
He goes rigid, and it takes everything in me to suppress the smirk forming at my lips as I set my writing equipment on the stone counter.
Only after I watch Nox roll up his sleeves, the dark fabric hugging against the line that cuts across his forearms, do I allow myself to get to work.
I get little work done.In the span of what must be an hour, I’ve filled up less than half a page. The truth is, I know little about the magic that haunts my mind.
