“Be careful!” she urged.
But he only smiled in that particular way that sent a tingle from her head to her toes.
Oh, how could she ever leave him? When the coronation was over and he was king, she would buy another house for her father, and then she would return to Asherton, guarding him forever, watching from corners and doorways, quipping and sparring, sleeping in his room and insisting he wear shoes when he wandered into the rain. Even at a distance, she would be with him. Even in his mess and the shifting winds of his temper—she could ride them like a dragon on a gale, happy that she was allowed the thrill of his storm.
Sweat beaded on Magdala’s brow and Asherton strained, reaching down the plant’s throat.
“Hurry,” Magdala grunted.
“He’s going to get swallowed,” Zephyr grumbled.
“That will please the multitudes,” Asherton’s voice echoed back.
“Be careful, Ash!” Magdala shouted. “I do not want to go in there after you.”
Asherton slid a few inches and Magdala wanted to reach out and grab his belt to yank him out, but she couldn’t release the iris’s jaws.
“Got it!” Asherton shouted and, at the same moment, a messenger dragon landed on Magdala’s shoulder.
The iris started, jerking its head out of Magdala’s hands and clamping down on Asherton’s torso. Magdala grappled along its slick, wet lips, trying to pry its mouth open. It thrashed, and she sailed through the air, cracked against the surface of the pond, and sank in a swirl of green water, bubbles, and tangled duckweed.
Magdala oriented herself and struck out for the surface, emerging wet and disheveled, with pond weed in her hair. Zephyr had managed to subdue the angry iris, and Asherton was sliding free, clutching a bullfrog. He was laughing, covered in sludge and unperturbed by Zephyr’s shouting. He held up the bullfrog and Zephyr’s face softened.
“These always disarm you,” Asherton said. “Even in your worst moods.”
A water-strider clinging to her hair, Magdala swam awkwardly to the bank and splashed over to the patient little dragon.
It sniffed her fingers as she drew the folded paper from its pouch. She watched it flap away before she settled on the bank and opened the letter.
Attn: Magdala Devney
Elegy house, Elegy Island
Miss Devney,
I thought we had an agreement, but I see you have not held to your half of it. I do not believe you when you say the prince is innocent, and I will be looking into the matter further.
Also, Queen-Regent Madelaine received your request for a double guard for the upcoming coronation. I am afraid that I deem it both unnecessary and impossible. I have detached all my men to guard the streets, and I don’t imagine the prince will be in need of an escort. After the coronation, we can discuss this further.
Yours,
Huxley Davenport
Magdala hurled the letter into the pond, where it was promptly eaten by a large-mouth glassfish.
“What’s wrong?” Asherton asked.
“Nothing,” Magdala replied, forcing a smile. “I’m going tostroll around and check the grounds.”
“Be careful,” Asherton said as the iris sucked his arm down its throat.
She waved in acknowledgment and marched toward the woods. This foolish, pointless passion for Asherton was clouding her judgment. She needed to clear her head and ask herself what she would do to protect him if he wasn’t the object of her every desire and affection.
She needed to distance herself from him. Clear space in her head. Pretend he was just another charge, like Angelonia.
Drawing her knife, Magdala slashed at the briars tangled over the path. The coronation loomed, a monster on a bridge, and she could not work out how they could pass it unscathed. Surely, with Asherton so close to the throne, her father and Huxley would have plans. And Huxley suspected her shift in loyalties.
And then there was the curse.
