Whose fault was this? Huxley’s? Her father’s? Was this somehow Asherton’s fault?
“I didn’t want to kill him,” Magdala said. “I was supposed to …”
“So someone did hire you?”
Magdala set her teeth. She wasn’t going to cower and spill the truth to him. He couldn’t prove anything she didn’t admit to. “I didn’t try to kill the prince. That is all I will say about it.”
Zephyr’s face darkened. “Don’t play games with me, child. I will get the truth from you, one way or another.”
Magdala slunk lower in the chair, her heart pounding.
“Do you think you’ll hang?” Zephyr asked, his voice low and threatening. “Oh, you won’t hang.” He turned away from her and walked to a shelf by the window lined with an array of glass bottles. The glass chinked softly as he sifted through them, then he held one up and turned toward her.
His eyes glinted, and she recognized the light in them—she’d seen it in the eyes of villagers at the picket line. Her stomach dropped. Her greatest mistake had been underestimating this immortal’s love for his ward.
“I have some amenite, too,” Zephyr said darkly. “How convenient. Yes, I think I’ll give you some of this so you will tell me exactly who is after the prince, and then you will die right there in that chair, and once you’re dead, I will simply sink your body in the pond and no one will ever know what happened to you.”
Magdala could see it—her body slumped over and her eyes blank and staring. Asherton gazing down at her with vague regret and disappointment. She was never going to restore her father’s fortunes or dance with her mother or have her revenge on Huxley or kiss Asherton …
And what about Anton? She imagined him lying on her cot tonight, sad and confused. Tears gushed down her cheeks. “I didn’t know that amenite was deadly.”
“Are you really that stupid?” Zephyr scoffed.
“Yes,” Magdala sobbed. “I am that stupid. I am the stupidest woman alive, but I’m not a killer.”
Her mind flashed back to the hesitation in the maze. Such a little thing, but she had meant for the assassin to kill Asherton. Was a passive killer any better than an assassin?Perhaps this the Only’s justice. Or perhaps it was the curse rebounding on her.
Magdala’s perception of herself — a dutiful daughter, a loyal guard, a skilled and wise and clever and witty andgoodperson — crumbled like a dam under floodwaters. Her father’s bitterness had eaten away at her integrity, and his rage was the knife in her chest.
Zephyr wetted a knife and poured the amenite over the blade. She choked on a sob—she didn’t want to die like a pathetic child. She deserved this, and she would take it like a woman.
She didn’t fight him when he took her arm and laid the blade against her palm.
“One last time. Who hired you?”
She almost told him. She didn’t care to protect Huxley, but what if Huxley shifted blame to her father? Surely Huxley knew, when he sent her here, that amenite was deadly. And if he had meant to use her as a scapegoat, no one was safe. Her father would hang for the conspiracy, and she would have to stand by and watch.
She dropped her head, shut her eyes, and waited for the blade to sting her skin, but a pounding at the door interrupted them.
“Go and rest!” Zephyr barked.
“Zeph!” Asherton’s voice was muffled through the thick wood. “Leave her alone!”
Zephyr’s lips tightened.
Asherton beat the door until the floor shook. “Zephyr, don’t you dare touch her! Let me in!”
“Go to bed and rest!” Zephyr roared.
“LET ME IN!” Asherton shouted.
“GO!”
Frantic, Magdala dove for the door, trying to reach the latch before Zephyr could stop her. Her fingers brushed the brass, but Zephyr caught her by the shoulders and hurled her to the ground.
“ZEPH!” Asherton’s voice was angry and strained. “What are you doing? Leave her alone!”
He shook the lock and then, to Magdala’s shock, the door shuddered and the lock snapped, shearing half the jamb off with it.
