“You’re not what I expected,” he mumbled.
“And what did you expect?”
“Someone weaker. More afraid. Witches bend, they cower.”
“Disappointed?”
“Intrigued.”
That certainly sounded like a confession. I risked a glance up and found him watching me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter. Not the clinical assessment from before, this was something hungrier. I swallowed and returned to the search, fingers diving deeper into the ravaged mattress. My hand hit something. Paper rolled up tight.
My heart stopped.
The scroll was small, bound with red thread, the exact shade of that sprite’s hair. The one who always summoned Vitoria secretly. The one whose identity I’d never pushed to learn because Vitoria’s secrets were her own. The one who only delivered messages at night, summoning her to a mysterious player in this hunt.
Every instinct screamed to hide it. To palm it and claim I’d found nothing. But Wickett was right there, watching, and if he saw me hiding evidence, it would undo everything I set up tonight. The trust. The leadership. The carefully constructed image of the grieving woman desperate for truth.
“I found something,” I heard myself say.
Wickett moved closer, his chest nearly against my shoulder as he leaned in to see. His breath warmed my neck. I unrolled the parchment with hands that wanted to shake but didn’t. The inside was almost blank. No message. No instructions. Just the outer edge, decorated with delicate filigree in gold ink that spiraled and looped until it formed a single word at the center.
Crossing.
The word meant nothing to me. A surname? A place? Some code I wasn’t supposed to understand?
“Crossing,” Wickett repeated, testing it. “You know what it means?”
“No. But she clearly didn’t want anyone to find this.”
He took the scroll from my fingers, studying the elegant script. “This ink is expensive. Sprite-made, probably. And thepaper...” He held it up to the dim light, turning it until something caught the fading candlelight. “Look at this.”
I leaned closer. Pressed into the fibers was the faintest shimmer, not quite a watermark, more like an echo of strange magic that had touched it once.
“Fury made,” he said quietly. “You can tell by the way it holds light. Regular paper absorbs it. This... reflects it back. Like it remembers being touched by something wrong.”
My stomach dropped. “How do you know that?”
“My father collects artifacts. Teaches us to recognize them.” His jaw tightened slightly. “This kind of paper is rare. Expensive. Made by Fury artisans who’ve learned the old craft. Most of it gets bought by collectors or used for official documents between powerful families.”
“She had connections I didn’t know about,” I said carefully. “Obviously.”
Wickett’s eyes found mine, sharp with calculation. “Or someone wanted to send her a message that couldn’t be intercepted. Artisan paper doesn’t burn. Doesn’t dissolve. Can’t be magically traced.” His mouth curved slightly. “Good work, little witch.”
“We should tell the others,” I said, shifting away.
“Should we?” He moved with me, following. “Or should we see where this leads first?”
“That’s not—” I stopped as my back hit the wall. “We agreed. No secrets.”
“Did we?” He braced one hand beside my head, caging me without touching. “Because I think you’re keeping plenty from me.”
“I gave you the scroll.”
“How long did you consider hiding it?”
My pulse hammered. “About two seconds.”
“The truth?” His other hand came up, fingers hovering near my jaw.
