“Of course I do.” He breathed a sigh. “I’m living this madness right now. We’ve already given our testimony – the guards have our statements. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m going to do whatever it takes to prove his innocence. He didn’t do this. I believe it with every fibre of my being. Fynn wouldn’t – couldn’t – harm anyone. He never has. And he would especially never hurt Brighde, let alone kill her.”
“I know.” Tristan rose and resumed his pacing. “I believe so, too. Of course I do. But how do we prove it?”
“I just gave a plan. We find the blue light. We get it to talk.”
“And if we can’t? If it doesn’t say what you want it to? If the magistrate declares it a mere parlour trick to shift the course of justice?”
“I have to do something, Tristan.”
“Does it have to be this? We have done something. We gave our statements. They have our testimony and will present it at the trial. We were there, after all. They cannot disregard the facts.”
“Not when it happened. It’s a big distinction. When we got there, she was already…” Aloisia’s breath caught on the word.Dead. It sounded so final, so cruel. It wasn’t a word befitting someone like Brighde.
Tristan paused, gripping her shoulder as if to brace her.
“We saw the markings appear, however. That must stand for something.” She clenched her hand again. “I wonder what those markings were.”
“It almost looked like a language,” Tristan pondered, “though none I know.”
“What if the markings hold answers, too? If it is a language?”
“Lis…”
“We have some leads here. We must follow them. They could lead to the truth.”
“The investigation is the remit of the Father’s Guild. We can’t interfere like this.”
“And I can’t sit around here doing nothing!”
“I know what you’re doing.” Tristan knelt before her again, concern lighting his kind blue eyes. “Focusing on this to avoid what you must do. Lis, you can’t run from this forever. You’ll have to see your ma sometime.”
Aloisia’s jaw pulsed. “No. I’m trying to save my brother from his inevitable execution because they believe he did this.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch. There hasn’t been a trial yet.”
Early morning sunlight filtered in through the window of Tristan’s chambers. Aloisia squinted as she stared out the window, realising neither of them had slept. Though she thought sleep would elude her. Every time she closed her eyes for too long, images of Brighde’s body, the grotesque humanoid shadows, Fynn being arrested, all surged forth, etched into her eyelids.
“I can’t do nothing,” she murmured.
“I know.”
Silence stretched out between them, like a chord pulled tight. Aloisia cradled her left hand in her lap, still clutched tight in a fist.
A flicker of panic flitted across Tristan’s face. “What’s wrong with your hand? Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, unable to voice what had happened, unable to allow herself to ponder what kind of magic may have imprinted itself upon her. If magic had killed Brighde, what could it do to her? Magic itself was a foreign enough concept, something kept by the Scholars of the Mage’s Guild alone, something held only in Ephroditia. And, even then, the Crown only permitted certain kinds of magic. Quintessence, the practice of the scholars, was the sole surviving form. But something told her whatever had tainted Brighde’s skin was not the magic held by the Mage’s Guild.
Tristan reached for her. “What’s the matter?”
Aloisia took a deep breath. “When I touched Brighde’s hand, something seared me. I was too focused on Fynn being arrested to really pay attention to it.”
“By the Divines.”
“What if it’s marked me? What if I’m next?”
“Open your hand.”
