“I don’t have a watch.”
“I don’t want your excuses.” She folds her hands in front of her. “So?”
“I retrieve this girl, bring her to you unharmed, and you’ll release my brother? Also unharmed?”
“You have my word,” she answers.
I don’t often trust the word of Cardinal Witches, but the West has always been true to hers.
“Fine. Where will I find this girl?”
“Her name is Dorothy Gale. Her house came down in the East End. She’ll likely be close by.”
“I thought you were all-seeing. Can’t you tell me where she is?”
The witch’s shoulders level out, then rock back. “I can’t see her anymore.”
If I cared at all about any of this, I’d consider that interesting. I pull out another cigarette, stick it between my lips, and retrieve my lighter. But the witch snaps her fingers and thecigarette disappears in a swirl of golden magic. “Not in my house,” she says.
I sigh. My head is starting to pound. I rarely drink Oil anymore. It gives me a headache. Straight in the veins is how I prefer it. “Is that all then?”
“For now. If the situation changes, I will inform you.”
I turn and head for the door.
“But don’t forget, Tinman. The girl is to be unharmed.”
“I heard,” I say over my shoulder. “I’ll tie her up and wrap her in soft, gauzy linen and toss her over my shoulder if I must.” I stop at the door and glance back at her once more. “One way or another, you’ll have your Dorothy Gale.”
SIXTEEN
Gabriel
The Oil sends Gabriel floating.
In the hours that stretch like putty, everything is okay. He doesn’t have his freedom, but at least he has the warmth. At least he has his good looks.
Behind his closed lids, the darkness swims, then sparks. The sparks remind him of the fireworks the day the war ended. The gods were gone. The royal family was gone. And the witches promised better times.
Everyone was desperate for a normal life. Even if it was promised on a pile of ash.
In the flashing light of the fireworks, he can see his brothers. They don’t hate each other. Not yet.
There is an amber bottle of Emerald Spice being passed between them all. The ale is warm on Gabriel’s tongue. It tastes like wintertime, like cloves and ginger.
Gabriel is not yet cursed. That comes later. His body is still his own, he is not a prisoner of it, imprisoned in it. He is free.
But he doesn’t feel free.
“Wake up, little one.”
Gabriel’s eyes slowly part. The spark of the fireworks is replaced by the flickering of torch flame.
The witch is standing in the hall outside his cell.
Gabriel groans and sinks back into the stone. “I prefer not to.”
“How did your brother seem?”
