“This maiden,” I said slowly, setting down my cup with a deliberate care that disguised the trembling in my fingers. “Would her name happen to be Isabeau Dubois?”
The king’s eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise crossing his weathered features. “It is! How remarkable that you would know her immediately.”
“Not so remarkable,” I replied, forcing a casual shrug while my mind raced. “Thorndale is a small place. The Dubois girl was... notable. Her father was our village inventor. Clever man, if impractical. He was taken as sacrifice to the forest some months ago.”
“Sacrifice? I think my brother mentioned this tradition.” Theron leaned forward, suddenly interested in something beyond his wine cup. “What sort of barbaric custom is that?”
“A necessary one,” I said smoothly. “The forest demands tribute during the Harvest Moon. One life given freely prevents many taken forcibly. It’s been our way for generations.”
The king nodded sagely, though I doubted he truly understood. City dwellers, even royal ones, never comprehended the harsh realities of border life, the compromises made tosurvive alongside ancient powers that cared nothing for human laws or sovereignty.
“And the girl?” the king prompted. “You knew her well?”
I took a careful breath, considering my words. What had Isabeau told them? How much did Alain know? The second son’s coldness toward me this morning suddenly made perfect sense. The little witch had poisoned him against me with her lies.
“I did,” I acknowledged, crafting truth and fiction into a seamless narrative. “After her father was taken, I offered her my protection. She had no other family, you see. A beautiful, vulnerable young woman alone in a border village...” I trailed off, letting them draw their own conclusions.
Theron’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “You fucked her.”
“Theron,” the king admonished, though without much heat. “Crude as always.”
I allowed a small, reminiscent smile to cross my lips, as if recalling pleasant memories rather than the rage that had consumed me when she’d fought back, when her eyes had glowed with unnatural light as she’d thrown me across the room without touching me.
“She was... special,” I admitted. “Unlike other women I’ve known. There was something otherworldly about her. Something not quite... natural.”
The king’s expression sharpened, his gaze suddenly more calculating than convivial. “Not natural? Explain.”
This was it. The moment to reclaim what was mine—or destroy it entirely. If Isabeau had somehow survived and found her way into Prince Alain’s protection, she had to be eliminated. I couldn’t risk her revealing the full truth of our time together, couldn’t allow her to undermine the reputation I’d spent decades building.
If I couldn’t have her, no one would.
“I hesitate to say it, Your Majesty,” I began, infusing my voice with reluctance and concern. “Such accusations are not made lightly, especially to one’s king.”
“Speak freely,” the king commanded, setting down his goblet with a decisive thunk. “If there is something I should know about this girl my son has brought into my castle, I would hear it now.”
I leaned forward, lowering my voice as if sharing a dangerous secret. “The girl is a witch, Your Majesty. I discovered it only after taking her into my home. Strange occurrences. Objects moving without being touched. Plants growing out of season under her care. And her eyes...” I shook my head, as if disturbed by the memory. “They glow when she uses her power. Like an animal’s in firelight.”
Theron’s face had lost its drunken flush, his expression suddenly wary. The king’s features hardened into the stern countenance that had presided over countless executions of those found practicing the forbidden arts.
“You’re certain?” he asked, his voice dropping to match my hushed tone. “Magic is a serious accusation, Lord Coventry.”
“I would stake my life and reputation on it,” I replied solemnly. “When I confronted her, she attacked me with her powers. Threw me across the room without laying a hand on me. I subdued her and brought her to justice according to our village customs.”
“Which are?” Theron asked.
“The drowning cage,” I explained. “Water purifies the taint of magic. She was sentenced and executed. Or so I thought.” I frowned, as if puzzled. “I watched her sink. She should be dead.”
The king’s expression had turned to stone, all joviality vanished. “Yet she lives. Found in the very forest that claimed her father.”
“It seems her powers are greater than we realized,” I said gravely, avoiding some truths to make it look like I wasn’tobsessed with her. “She escaped somehow, used her magic to survive what would kill a normal woman.”
The older servant with the wine pitcher had stilled again, her knuckles white around the vessel’s handle. The thought of a witch terrifying her because she was taught to fear it.
“And now she has bewitched my son,” the king muttered, jaw tightening. “Used her unholy powers to ensnare him. No wonder he is so enamored by her.”
I didn’t correct his assumption. Better to let him believe Alain was under magical influence rather than admit the second son might genuinely care for the witch. It made what needed to be done simpler, cleaner.
“She’s clever,” I added, stoking his fears. “Presents herself as innocent, victimized. Claims to have healing knowledge passed from her mother, but it’s all a cover for her true nature.”
