Casters whispered something different. They wondered if a prejudice against magic had influenced Charlie’s death, if the son of a Caster suffered for something his mother had done.
“How could His Majesty be certain it was a malicious act rather than a mistake?” Baron asked. “This was the son of anearl. Was there no consideration for his family, not even for a proper goodbye?”
Aria winced, and so Baron softened his voice.
“He was fifteen,” he said quietly. Though he spoke of Charlie, a youth he’d only met briefly, his mind was on two boys just up the hill from the orchard.
“My father would not have done it if it wasn’t necessary.”
“You’re implying the king is infallible?”
“I’mimplyinghe doesn’t execute his friends’ children forenjoyment. Jonathan Morton was the man my father invited to hunts most frequently, the member of Upper Court he sought out for counsel more than any other. Even though they weren’t family, my father wore black after the earl’s death.” She looked away. “I have no doubt finding Charles as a spy was the worst day of my father’s life. His eyes grow haunted whenever the topic arises.”
As silence fell between them, the princess rubbed her eyes, clearly struggling to keep them open.
“I must leave,” she said quietly. “Jenny has important business in Harper’s Glade, and I wouldn’t keep her from it.”
“Wait.” Baron held his hand out for the journal. “I’ll write on a fresh page, if you don’t mind.”
70 days left
Long after midnight, Aria reviewed Baron’s notes. Though her trip with Jenny could have been done in a day, she’d arranged to split it over two as part of her experiment to discover the limits of her curse. They’d paid for a night at the Stonewall inn, and Jenny slept soundly in a narrow bed along the far wall while Aria paced beside a small table, her journal tilted to catch the lamplight.
Unlike her own chaotic handwriting, Baron’s flowed smoothly across the page, neat and orderly.
Magic is inherited through bloodline, but the inheritance is not strict. Stone and Fluid may arise in the same family. Casting is a dormant ability at first, and must be awoken by effort on the Caster’s part.
Age plays no part in activation. Though testing begins at twelve years old, I received my witch’s mark at six.
Of all his corrections, that haunted her most. She pressed one hand to her mouth as she paced, her eyes fixed on that number.Six.Her soul ached to think of a small child awaiting the blistering touch of heated iron.
As soon as she returned to the palace, she would review her great-grandmother’s branding law. If it forbade early branding,as she imagined it must, she would hunt down the officials who’d registered Baron and see discipline administered. After that, she would speak to her father, and ...
And what? Persuade him to change the law?
She heard his voice in memory, giving the answer already:A monarch cannot waste time reevaluating when the path moves ever forward.
Aria clenched her jaw. She lowered her journal, staring around at a room silent beyond Jenny’s breathing. The nervous energy inside pulsed, urging her to pace again, to move, to dance, to accomplish great things! All she wanted was a moment of peace to think.
Unable to focus, she tossed her journal on the bed and proceeded with the second task of the night—testing her curse.
Tonight’s experiment was easy; no leeches required. Aria crossed the room and shook Jenny. The girl continued to sleep as Aria expected.
She ducked out of the room and knocked sharply on the next door over, where her footman, driver, and two guards slept. The guards and the driver had been in her family’s service for years, but the footman was new, hiredafterAria visited Widow Morton.
Aria knocked again, with more insistence.
After another moment, the door swung open, and a bleary-eyed footman peeked out at her, his shirt haphazardly buttoned, one section of hair sticking out above his ear. He gave a hasty bow.
“Highness?” he croaked. “What’s wrong? I’ll wake the—”
“Shh.” Aria pressed a finger to her lips. Inside, she bounced with the joy of discovery, and she strained to hold back her smile. “I don’t need the guards. It’s no pressing matter. I seem to have misplaced my journal. Do you remember seeing it in the carriage?”
“No, I—I’ll go search at once—”
“Never mind. It can wait until morning. Forgive me, I have lost track of the lateness of the hour.”
The poor man didn’t scowl at her as she deserved but merely nodded in confusion, gave another bow, and returned to bed.
