“Can I ask what your name is? Do you remember it?” the witch prompts me.
My mouth opens, and it takes me two full breaths before I even recall that important piece of information about myself.
“Bo.” I cough, my throat feeling as though it needs to defrost as I attempt to regain my words. Speech is all I have. “My name is Bo.”
“Hello, Bo. Do you have any idea what happened to you? How you got cursed into the form of a statue?” The witch in front of me grimaces, the expression almost apologetic. “It’s probably hard to talk about. But we just want to make sure you’re safe. That the danger is not still near.”
“Dimitri,” I rasp. “His house. It cursed me.”
The witches all exchange a look, and I cannot read what’s on their faces, but it has my hackles rising.
“Is he here? Is he nearby?”
Will the old dragon be furious to realize that his prison on me has been broken? How long was I trapped in there? A day? A week? More?
Will a month of immobility make up for the wrong I did him?
“He’s not here,” Mor says, and a small knot of tension eases in my chest.
“Are you from Folk Haven?” One of the male witches asks this question, leaning forward, as if he means to move closer to me, but he stills his steps when I flinch away.
I do not like the fear that courses strong in my veins. I’m not a stranger to fear, but this level has reached new heights.
“Yes.” I scan their faces again. Each one unfamiliar. Even the color of their hair would have them standing out in this town. “But you’re not.”
Mor tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. “We are now. We all have lived here for two years. We bought the house that used to belong to Dimitri Novac. The dragon passed away.”
“He passed? When?”
Dimitri was just alive. Glaring down at me from the top of the staircase as his house bound me in metal.
“I did nothing to him.”
Nothing other than take a step into his territory.
“We know. He died of natural causes. Three years ago.”
“Impossible. That’s … impossible.”
Three years?
How long … how long was I trapped in there? Three years is not possible. I would’ve died.
Or maybe not.
Magic does not always follow the rules, but the rest of the world does.
“Are you telling me that I was trapped for three years?”
The werewolf gives the slightest flinch at my question. As if the words were a blow to him.
“I don’t know.” This answer comes from the witch in front of me. From Mor. She remains on her knees across from me, her astute eyes seeming to both look at me and look at the air around me. “Like I said, even though we live in Folk Haven now, we’re new here. But your statue has been in this garden since we owned the home. I don’t know if you have been in prison for three years, but you have been for at least two.”
Two years. Three years.
What if my efforts were not considered enough payment? What could he have done to her with me being away for years?
“Do you know …” My need for the answer is so desperate that it cuts off my throat. The moment I ask the question, I might learn the devastating truth. “Georgiana. Have you met a Georgiana since you’ve been here? Do you know … is she okay?”
