“And you believe them?” I ask.
“Quick tongue, young lady…” Malcolm chuckles, moving another chess pieces with mild interest.
“I believe them.”
I have no idea whether or not it would be beneficial for me to confirm or deny. Will being a witch get me burned at a stake here? Will it save our lives and get us kicked out because Maxwell is superstitious?
“We’d like to be released,” I point out again.
“Oh, I bet you would. And why would I release prisoners who are so clearly from the prim and proper Chandelier City, who have magically appeared in my prison without so much as a trace of appropriate admittance?”
“Do we have a criminal record?” Niklaus interrupts. He waits mockingly. “Have we broken any laws? Guilty of any offenses against you?”
Malcolm’s hand tightens around his queen, hovering over the board.
“Tell us your names and perhaps we may be better suited to answer those questions for you.”
“My name is Ophelia Dredmoor, and this is my husband, Mortimer Dredmoor,” I announce.
Maxwell offers a faint nod to one of the guardians. The doors open and shut to fact check. Aunt Marilynn read us a bedtime story once. It was about Ophelia and Mortimer, a husband and wife who would walk the streets at night and find evil men to invite in for supper. Mortimer carried a lantern with a black flame. When that flame went out, it meant the Ophelia had cursed another evil soul with plagues unknown to man.
We used to ask for that creepy story every Hallow’s Eve.
Niklaus catches on quickly as he goes with it without objection.
“I take it you are aware we are at war with your country, Mrs. Ophelia Dredmoor?” Malcolm lowers his bifocals to inspect my immediate reaction.
“I’ve heard mentions of it, yes.”
“Hmm.” Malcolm signals to someone behind us with two fingers. “Drinks for our new guests. And, ah, Crow, I sent for you hours ago.”
“I was undergoing trials with a rather difficult subject.” A startlingly short man walks into the room, dropping into a crooked chair next to Malcolm. He can’t weigh more than one hundred and ten pounds. With a low ashy brown ponytail hanging at the base of his neck, and greasy slicked back hair, he reminds me of a ferret or maybe a gerbil.
“We’re having a drink with our newest guests. Undocumented, which is, well, anyway… They are in the cages next to two of your subjects! Don’t you find that interesting?” Maxwell clasps his hands together and sits up in his chair, making an animated face at the doctor.
Right on cue, a servant delivers two dull metal cups to Niklaus and I. The liquid has a potent smell. Stronger than alcohol, mixed with an earthy sweetness that smells just like…
My eyes snap over to Niklaus so quickly, I’m sure no one catches it.
Black rose of the well.
The same plant the Mazonist Brothers gave our parents to get the truth out of them. When ingested, it’s impossible for anyone to resist spilling every ounce of the truth. But not for us. Thankfully, our mother’s put black rose of the well in our food since we were small. Amounts so light, we never even noticed. It had no effect on us, and they made sure we knew it too.
Study that smell, Krimson. If you ever catch that earthy sweetness coming from your food or drink, someone is trying to wrongfully extract information from you. But you’ve all grown such a wonderful tolerance to it.
Guilt claws at my chest.
I used to call my mother paranoid to Krimson once we were let outside to play. I’d fuss, call her names, and laugh at how obsessive and distrustful she was for no reason.
I was wrong.
“Drink,” Malcome urges with an inviting smile.
I hold up my glass and tip my head forward in gratitude, chugging the drink, and resting assured that we are not being poisoned. That would be a colossal waste of black rose of the well.
“Thank you,” I say, handing the cup back to the servant.
“Certainly.” Malcolm rotates away from his game and steeples his fingers. “How did you say you found yourself in our prison again?”
