“It’s a good plan, little hen. It will make the kingdom turn its head and watch. Simple.”
“The best plans always are,” she replied, her gaze drifting back to the shotfire. She needed to get him out of the room so she could inspect it and then damage it in some way. “Do you have any water?” she asked. “I’m parched.
“Not in the house. In the well outside.”
“Would you fetch me some? I’ve been standing in hot rooms all day, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet.”
Seamus looked annoyed, but he didn’t protest. Groaning, he pushed out of the chair and stomped out the door. The instant it shut behind him, Magdala darted up and grabbed the shotfire.
It was heavy and unwieldy. She ran her hand along the barrel, then inspected the firing mechanism. A little tray stood beside the hammer, which meant it used black powder. The powder horn must be nearby. Frantic, Magdala tore around the room, rifling through drawers and in the kitchen cupboards. Outside, the well creaked — her father drawing up the bucket. He would be back in a moment, and she wouldn’t get another chance. She would either have to reconcile having Asherton’s chest, and hers with him, hollowed out like a pumpkin on Harvest Moon, or she would have to confront her father and take the shotfire herself, risking a new, more devious plan.
Tearing open the drawer in her father’s writing desk, she finally found the powder horn. Weighing it in her hand, Magdala rushed to the kitchen and pulled down her bag of flour. Carefully, she pushed the window open. It squeaked and she froze. Her father’s footsteps rustled in the grass, a few strides from the door. Her blood whistling in her temples, Magdala dumped the black powder into the garden bed outside. It was heavy and clumped, an odd texture. Hastily, she scooped flour into the powder horn with her bare hands, spilling white dust all down her black uniform. When the horn weighed enough, she wiped it on her shirt and raced back across the room, stuffing it into the drawer where she found it. As she pushed it closed, the door opened and Seamus returned with a bucket of water.
“What are you doing?” he asked, taking in her flour-marred clothes.
“I was going to make you some bread,” she said, smiling breathlessly. “The larder is bare.”
“You’re a good girl.” Seamus offered her a joyless smile. “Thank you. Huxley is coming soon, so make a little extra.”
“All out of yeast, I fear,” Magdala said, throwing up her hands. “I’ll come back tomorrow with more and make up a few loaves for all your friends.”
“Yes.” A mad light glinted in his eyes. “We will have a great celebration tomorrow.”
He planted his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. Magdala itched to push him violently away and then shout herself hoarse at him. Swallowing acid, Magdala turned and charged out of the cottage.
Chapter 35
Magdala stumbled to the stable and mounted her father’s fat old cart dragon bareback. It unfurled wrinkled, creaky wings and flapped them reluctantly. She kicked it, but it could barely mount above the trees, and it rose and fell with each wing beat until Magdala thought she might be sick.
She landed in the palace courtyard and left the dragon untethered. It contented itself with lazily chewing a rose bush. Already, she could hear the city rumbling, the people simmering, building up to a riot.
Perhaps the curse was real after all. Perhaps it had slithered into Asherton’s mind and poisoned him to change the policy, so he was the agent of his own destruction.
As Magdala tore up the steps, her anger mounted like a flooding room. Before she entered Asherton’s chamber, she doubled forward, bit her hand, and released a muffled scream. She felt as though Asherton had plunged a knife into her back. Or, much worse, as if he’d plunged one into his own heart while she stood by and watched. She hesitated, staring at the latch, trying to beat down her emotions as one beats back a frothing, angry dog.
Finally, she opened the door. Zephyr sat by the fire, fitting together a puzzle. She scanned the room for Asherton, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
Zephyr looked up at her over his glasses. “I thought he was with you.”
“He changed his policy,” she blurted. “He announced he was going to cut off trade with Ashkendor.”
Zephyr started. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“Where is he?” she repeated, and her stomach bottomed out when Zephyr’s eyes widened.
“I thought he was with you.”
“How could he be with me? I just returned.”
“You were never to leave his side!” Zephyr cried, jumping up and bumping the table. The puzzle scattered across the carpet. “Why didn’t you wait for him outside the council room?”
There was no time for excuses or explanations. Magdala turned and ran down the corridor, then through ballrooms and sitting rooms, the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, and out into the gardens.
Was he out in the dark, waiting for an assassin to take a shot at him? Had someone lured him into a trap? Was he already lying dead in the lake, a knife in his heart? She never should have left him. She should have sat outside the council room door, waiting.
The moon cast faint, silvery light over the grounds. A few nocturnal guests strolled along the flower beds and sat in pergolas, stealing midnight kisses. They watched Magdalaas she tore past, her hair billowing, her voice shrill as she screamed, “ASHERTON!”
