“What are you doing here?” he asked again, ushering her into the cottage. It was cold inside, as damp as a potting shed. No fire burned in the hearth.
“I’m here with my charge for the coronation,” she said.
“I hoped Huxley had convinced you to come home and help the cause."
Magdala’s smile froze. “No,” she said stiffly. “No, I haven’t spoken to Huxley. Have you?”
“We have been making plans for the coronation.”
He nodded toward a shotfire leaning against the mantle. It was longer than a man was tall, the barrel as big around as her forearm.
“What in Roz’s nest is that?” she demanded.
“A new invention from the bone yards of Ashkendor. It can fire from a half mile away with the precision of a hawk’s eye. It is said to blow a hole in a pumpkin the size of a pot lid.”
Magdala’s throat went dry. Her eyes locked on the shotfire, and she could not drag them away.
“But the prince is lowering taxes, not joining the war,” she choked. “The people aren’t rioting; there is very little dissent. There’s no need …”
Her father shook his head. “The curse is still real. And the official word came out just moments ago that the prince’s first policy will be to cut off trade with Ashkendor. A war is imminent, unless he is stopped.”
The room warped like melted wax. “But he said … I heard that he was going to lower taxes. Why would he change his mind? Knowing the danger?”
“Huxley rode by with the news. The prince officially announced his intentions, not a half hour ago.”
While she was eating supper with the other guards, Asherton had changed his mind and thrown away the whole plan. Her vision blurred red. Her cheeks burned. How could he do this to her? They had agreed.
Magdala swallowed. She could throttle Asherton later, but for now, she needed to find out more about her father’s plans. “What are you going to do?”
He cast her a sidelong look. “Come now, I can’t tell you that.”
“I need to keep my charge away from danger,” she said.
Seamus lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t stand behind the prince at the coronation.”
She crossed to the hearth and took a log from the woodbox. It was green and wouldn’t burn well. “Da, I don’t think this is wise. It’s so public and …”
“I want it to be public,” he said quickly. “I want it to be dramatic—bloody.”
Magdala’s stomach pitched. Her dream about Asherton on the stairs shot across her mind. “Da, I know you’re passionate, and I respect that—” She startled at how easily the lie slipped out of her just to placate him. Was this a habit she never noticed before? “But if you kill the prince, you’ll be hanged.”
“More likely given a medal.”
“No, Da, not given a medal. Hanged. And you won’t get Elegy back.”
“Huxley has promised I will.”
A chill ran down her spine. “Huxley promised you Elegy?”
“He’s been very helpful since you left. Lots of clever ideas.”
“You can’t trust Huxley,” Magdala said. But maybe he could, now that he could no longer trust her.
“He’ll be back soon and you can speak with him yourself. Now, who are you guarding? Huxley said it was a secret.”
Magdala’s mind whirred. She needed to get the truth out of him and quickly, before Huxley arrived and called her bluff. “No one interesting, just some decrepit old duchess who smells of old lace and sour milk. But you are the one with the news. I’m bored. Tell me your plan.”
She lit the fire and sat upon the hearth, trying to appear casually curious. Beads of sweat dribbled from her hair, and she crossed her arms over her stomach to hide her trembling hands.
