“Watch.” He pointed at the door to the balcony, which opened with a clattering noise.
“So… you’re like a stage magician?” She looked around the room. “Is this a reality show of some sort? What are you? Some Houdini wannabe?”
He sighed again. “I am called Sondre, and I am not an illusionist. I am a witch.”
“Sawn-dray” the witch?
Despite best intentions, Maggie snorted. “Uh-huh.”
“You are here, Margaret, becauseyouare a witch, too.” He sounded so earnest, and she made a mental note to watch whatever show this was once her temper calmed. “As I’ve said several times, this is the College of Remedial Magic, where you will be a student and—”
“Sure it is.” She snorted again; that and her braying laughter sounding anything but appealing.
“You are here in Crenshaw to attend the College of Remedial Magic, Maggie,” said the affronted-looking “witch.” It was a shame he was a raving mad kidnapper. He was a handsome man. “You are in the castle, which will be your home during your time as a student. Classes will begin this week.”
When she was finally able to compose herself, she patted the man’shand. “I hate to break it to you, though, but man-witches are called wizards, and a few trip wires to open doors and sleights of hand aren’t enough to make a rational woman abandon civilized society. Your television show has a few cool gimmicks, but—”
“This is not a television show,” he stressed. “You are a witch, Margaret. This is a community for witches, and when you first arrive here, you must attend the college.”
“Fine. I want to disenroll from your college.” She shrugged.
Maybe it was the inflection in his words, or maybe it was the intuition she relied on in life and for her job, but she believed him. Maggie almost always knew when someone was telling the truth. She felt it in her bones.
“I still want to go home,” she said again. “I have ason.”
Sondre stood, poured another glass of what smelled like mead from the teapot, and downed it before muttering, “Youarehome. And now that you are not a danger to yourself or others, you may explore the castle, Margaret. Take the day to see your new school.”
Then he made a gesture as he headed to the door, which opened at his approach, and Maggie was left deciding if she ought to follow or stay in her prison.
Easy choice. She got up to trail after him. Exploring would let her find a way to escape—and get back to her son, her life. She wasn’t going to let Craig stay in danger one day longer than necessary.
7Ellie
Ellie blinked, trying to take in her location. Bright lights glared down. Steady beeps echoed. She yanked the IV out of her arm, and the beeping in her room became unreasonably fast, but she was convinced that time was lagging. What if whatever nerve was pinched in the crash worsened? What if that can’t-feel-her-toes thing returned? Ellie wanted to explain the taffy to the doctors before it was too late to fix it.
“Where’s Hestia?” she asked the empty room.
As Ellie thought about it, the pulling-taffy feeling in her belly started, stopped, and then started again. It was akin to dealing with an old push-mower she’d finally given away. Some days, she’d pull that starter cord a dozen times with nothing but a fuel-scented cloud in her face, and other times, it started on the first tug. It was infuriating with a mower, but it was something far worse with time.
The doorway darkened as a nurse entered. She stood, one leg raised like she was a full-figured flamingo clad in support hose, and slowly blinked at Ellie.
“What time is it?” Ellie asked, wincing as the skin and vein at the injection site responded finally to the jerk of needle and tape and tubing.
“Toooosday.” The nurse shook her head and tried again. “It’s Tuesday.”
The woman looked around, as if she was also vaguely aware something was wrong. Of course, that was a projection. The nurse, undoubtedly, noticednothingbecause time was nothing like taffy. Ellie knew that.
“What was in the tube?” Ellie motioned to the liquid now dripping onto the scratchy sheets and hospital mattress.
“Tramadol for the pain initially, but—”
“That explains it.” Ellie watched the nurse move in jerky start-and-stop motions that made her seem robotic and glitchy. The woman took several halting steps, continuing to move in that mechanical way.
A robotic flamingo.
Ellie rubbed her eyes, wiping away the nonsense thought and, hopefully, the quirks in her vision. “How long until it wears off?”
The nurse patted her arm again. “We stopped the Tramadol last night, Ellie. You’re just tired.”
