“Orally or in his blood?”
She held out the knife, and he snatched it from her and ran his finger over the flat of the blade.
“Bleed him,” he said. “I have an antidote somewhere, I think. Maybe. Dear Only above, I hope I have it. Now go! Bleed him or he’ll die!”
Magdala charged back to the house, her chest tight. Her throat constricted as she slid into the ballroom. Asherton sat where she had left him, with his forehead resting on his knee. She called to him as she ran across the slippery floor. “Ash! Speak to me!”
He lifted his head, annoyed. “I told you to run.”
She slid to her knees beside him and pushed up his shirt. “I don’t like to do what I’m told.”
“Yes, it’s very annoying,” he rasped.
Taking his discarded knife, she carefully sliced the scratch in his side. He inhaled sharply.
“What are you doing?” he asked, bleary.
“Zeph said to bleed you,” she replied.
“Magdala, why would you tell Zeph?” he moaned. “He’ll have you …”
The front door slammed and Zephyr pounded into the room. His jaw was set like granite, but Magdala read panic in his eyes. “Well?” he barked.
“He’s conscious," Magdala said.
“How do you get yourself into these scrapes, child?” he scolded, but his voice broke and he pressed his lips together. He dropped heavily to his knees and produced a little bag of dried leaves which he poured them into Asherton’s hand. Asherton chewed them slowly, then swallowed.
“I was experimenting,” Asherton panted, “with the amenite.”
Apparently the truth serum had worn off.
“I’m sure you were,” Zeph said, casting a cold look at Magdala. He laid his big hand on Asherton’s forehead, then pulled up his eyelid with his thumb. “It’s working.” He sighed. Sitting back on his heels, Zephyr pressed two fingers under Asherton’s jaw. “You’ll feel strange the rest of the day, no doubt, but I think the antidote is overcoming the poison.”
Magdala let out a sob and covered her face with her hands.
His nostrils flaring and his spectacles sliding down his nose, Zephyr looped his arm around Asherton’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. Magdala followed them to Asherton’s room and watched in tense silence as Zephyr sat him on the bed.
“I’m alright,” Asherton said, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Just a headache.”
“You rest.” Zephyr turned and clamped his hand on Magdala’s wrist. “Miss Devney and I need to talk.”
“Leave her be, Zeph,” Asherton said. He reached for them, but he stumbled and was forced to sit down.
Too stunned and frightened to understand what was happening, Magdala let Zephyr lead her out of the room, down the corridor, and into the large master bedroom. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the bed a huge four-poster cedar with a black velvet coverlet. The fireplace was so large, Magdala could have stood up in it, but it had been long abandoned, nothing now but a yawning black chasm.
Magdala shivered. She knew this room—it had been her father’s. She was born in this room. Her grandfather had died here.
Zephyr shoved her into a black leather armchair by the fireplace. “I should have known. From the moment you arrived, I should have known you were a scheming little …”
“I’m not …” Magdala panted. Her throat was dry as sand, her tongue heavy. She wanted to run. He was going to turn her over to the queen and have her hanged.
“Who hired you to kill him?”
“I didn’t know …”
“WHO?”
Magdala leaned back in the chair. She had turned into the villain of this story and Zephyr the righteous arbiter of justice. She didn’t know how to defend herself. She couldn’t defend herself.
