“So I can get shot protecting you? We’re both safer when you’re here. Now go!”
She slid down before he could reply. She knew the grounds like the back of her hand now, and her eyes adjusted quickly to the dark.
As she ran around the greenhouse, she saw someone slip into the hedge maze, and Magdala tore after him, close on his tail. But when she reached the center of the maze, he was gone. She swore. It was impossible. There was nowhere for him to go, no escape, no hidden doors. The hedge was undisturbed.
The assassin had vanished into thin air.
Chapter 24
Magdala searched the house and grounds until her legs ached, until every tree and pond and blade of grass concealed a ghost. And a ghost is what the assassin must be, because despite bumping around in every closet and armoire, running her hands over every bookshelf, and walking the length of the house three times, she found no secret doors, no hidden rooms. No dragons flapped away from the beach, no boats crossed the open expanse of sea. But if she couldn’t find the assassin, then how could she protect Asherton?
Dread stalked her. Perhaps the curse was real, and Asherton was doomed. His brother had been doomed as well, and now he was dead—killed in battle on foreign soil. Maybe if Asherton ascended the throne, he would die after all—unless she could save him. Unless he took the amenite and admitted he killed Julian.
Magdala returned at dawn, shivering. Her hair had dried tangled and knotted.
Asherton lay on his bed, reading. Zephyr snored in the armchair by the fire, the green sweater he’d been knitting draped over his knees. Magdala patted his shoulder, and he awoke with a snort. “Oh, it’s you. Catch anyone?”
“No,” Magdala replied, grim.
Zephyr yawned. “I’m going to bed. Lock the door. Keep him away from windows.”
He slipped out and Magdala clicked the lock behind him, then sat on her cot. Asherton glanced up at her, offered a wan smile—or perhaps it was a grimace—and silently returned to his book.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m always alright,” he replied without looking up.
Taking her hairbrush from the windowsill, Magdala set to work on her hair, viciously tearing through the curls. Her anger and frustration and despair rose with each brush.
Asherton slammed his book shut.
“What?” she asked.
“What are you doing to your hair?” he demanded.
“Brushing it, obviously.”
“No, no, no, no.” He tossed his book on the pillows and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Your hair is curly.”
“Yes …”
“You don’t brush out curly hair when it’s dry. You’ll be bald in a year.”
She kept brushing. “I’ve been doing this my whole life.”
“Then it’s a miracle you're notalreadybald … stop tearing at it! Stop!” He leaped across the space between them and sat at the foot of the cot. Magdala pulled up her feet, leaning away from him. “Let me see,” he said, holding out his hand.
“No!”
“You won’t regret it.”
“I am certain that I will.”
“No, you won’t. Come, I’m going to change your life.”
She glared at him. “I absolutely don’t need you changing my life any more than you already have.”
“Come, Mags, humor me.”
