Huxley pulled a glass vial from his pocket. “This is amanite powder.” He held out the vial. It swirled with midnight-blue, iridescent powder. “When mixed into liquid, it is colorless, flavorless, and odorless. And it forces whoever drinks it to tell the complete truth for a full minute after it is ingested.”
Magdala scowled. “You want me to give this to the prince and force him to admit that he killed Julian?”
“It could save our kingdom, our people, and our way of life,” Huxley said.
“But won’t he know I betrayed him? Won’t he have me punished?”
“If he abdicates, he’ll be nothing—no one. His word will carry no weight. And, because he will have to leave Allageshan lands in exile, Elegy will be vacant, and I will see to it that you and your family are restored to your home.”
He handed Magdala the vial. It weighed less than a feather.
“Why not just put him on the witness stand and make him take it?” Magdala asked.
“Oh, well.” Huxley rubbed his hands together. “It’s not permitted in court.”
“Why?”
“Do you want this deal or do you not?” Huxley snapped. “Because my patience is wearing thin.”
“Why are you so sure the prince killed Julian?” Magdala persisted. “What reason would he have to do it?”
Huxley rubbed his palms on his legs and glanced away. “He and Asherton did fight often at school.It was unfair how Asherton’s brother intervened. Perhaps now that the brother is out of the way, Julian wanted a chance to even the score between them, uninterrupted. But Asherton overpowered him.”
Magdala slipped the amenite into her pocket. “If I do this, you can’t tell my father where I’m going. He’ll get mad ideas about assassinations.”
Huxley nodded. “Very well.”
“And I want to do it my way, in my timing. I won’t have you staring over my shoulder, incriminating me, and bossing me around. I don’t want to see or hear from you until it’s done.”
Crossing his arms, Huxley shrugged. “Alright then.”
Magdala imitated him, her biceps bulging as she crossed her arms too. “And I’m not going to kill anyone.”
“What about an assassin?” Huxley asked. “Someone could try to kill the prince. Probably someone sitting in this room right now. Someone who has eaten your lovely sourdough bread.”
Magdala swallowed. She hadn’t thought of that. “I won’t kill the prince, but I won’t save him either.”
“Excellent.” Huxley offered her his hand. “You have until the coronation. Just over a month.”
Magdala did not shake his hand. “Consider it done.”
Chapter 10
The dragon circled, descended to the beach, and for the first time in sixteen years, Magdala Devney’s boots touched Elegy Island soil. She paused, expecting a rush of joy, or a swell of pride, or a sting of nostalgia. But she did not remember the tangle of dark woods that rose before her, or the rattle of the waves on the stony shore. Her father had never let her wander past the lawn and gardens.
But Magdala could recall where the path cut through the trees, because her last journey from the house to the beach was etched in her memory. She could still hear her father’s sniffling, see the sunshine reflecting on his tear-stained cheeks.
Where the path had been broad and well-traveled in her father’s day, brambles and weeds now grew over the crushed shells, and moss filled in the ruts.
A recent rain had stained the trees black. Vines dripping with burgundy flowers draped over crooked boughs. Black irises grew beside the path, caged inside wild blackberry bushes. Birds fluttered in the canopy, their feathers old blood red and plum purple. From branch to branch they flew, gossiping, and Magdala imagined they were crying out, “The lost duchess has returned! Elegy is restored!”
She passed a small pond overgrown with algae. A sharp, green fin cut the surface, and Magdala quickened her steps, her skin pricking.
Strolling through the ancient forest with her milk-pale complexion and blazing red hair, Magdala stood out like a drop of blood on dark velvet. She balled her hands into fists. Any moment, she would see it—her home, her heritage, the pride of her father, and the phantom in so many memories and so many dreams.
The forest broke and Magdala’s heart dropped. Elegy House wasn’t anything like she remembered it. What had once been her father’s perfect lawn was now overgrown with wildflowers. Unpruned Balmoral fig trees dropped waxy, dark green leaves on the path to the house, and moss smothered the flagstone walk. The imported marble fountain gurgled thick, brown water into a basin slick with algae, where a little aquatic dragon poked its domed eyes through a blanket of water clover.
Magdala took all this in and then looked up at the house. And her blood boiled.
