“Run,” he said again. Begged.
When the man replied, his tone was strikingly unpracticed. Almost…intimate. “I’m afraid that simply isn’t possible.”
Before he could parse the man’s strange behavior, Sy felt Mira approach, and deflated.Too late.
“Who is our guest, Sylas? What price shall he pay for disturbing our peace? I’m quite partial to the slugs, myself, but then I thought – Mirabelle, you’ve grown stale. It should be leeches!”
The man’s eyes locked on Mira. Any startling intimacy had entirely vanished, so thoroughly it must have been imagined. There was nothing untoward in his manner.
And yet, Sy couldn’t shake the impression the man was staring through the sights of a loaded shotgun.
“I am but a lowly representative from the Sangfeder Academy of Inscription Arts, unworthy of such company or regard,” he said with a gallant bow. Now his voice was rich and sonorous, a bugle call. “Ortolan Gander, an emissary sent on behalf of King Edgard, at your service.”
“A spellscribe.” Mira suddenly grew stiff. “Then I’ll give you a face more befitting your profession. What do you think, Sylas? A rat? Perhaps a wolf?”
As she spoke, coarse gray fur began sprouting along the emissary’s cheeks. “I come on official business from the king,” the man said, eyes darting to Sy, who looked away. The man’s fate was sealed. “You may want to consider his offer, first. A great reward,” he added in a rush as his face began to elongate.
Her smile faded, and her spell receded. “What reward?”
Ortolan swallowed, running a hand over his restored face. “One, Your Ladyship, that is long overdue.”
Mira cocked a suspicious eyebrow, sizing the man up. Suddenly, she spun around, her mink cape swishing behind her. “What are you waiting for, Sylas? See our guest inside.”
Leave, he begged again, silently. Anyone sensible would have by now. But the silent communion, the conspiracy, was gone.
Whatever Sy had thought he’d seen, the man was only the pliant emissary he professed to be.
Sy did not need to mask his disappointment; he hardly felt it. As the drawing had demonstrated, he could not trust his eyes. Could not trust himself. The only recourse was to stop expecting to; a bad habit he must work to correct. Thankfully, his mistress was eager to help.
“This way, if you please,” he said with a deferential bow. The man entered without looking at him. Sy closed the door, sealing them all inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Heart in her altered throat, Anya clasped a hand over her borrowed satchel and followed Mira into her parlor. She did not look at Sy as she passed; looking at him undid her. Already, she had come dangerously close to revealing herself, and that would ruin everything.
She had found the manor with relative ease. She set out at night; the stars sang secrets to her, still, after everything. Now that Anya knew the melody of the magic coursing through her, in fact, she saw the forest with more clarity than ever – crystal, celestial. No beast accosted her; no dread spirits led her astray. Her path was certain, her purpose true. Soon, the wind joined the stars’ chorus, and the pines, and the fireflies, earthbound stars themselves. They rejoiced in her return. They led her through the wood, and she followed. And as the fireflies faded, and the first notes of sunrise chimed, and the stars chanted their soft denouement, Bosquet Mire rose into view.
The iron gate had swung open as if she had been expected. Upon crossing its threshold, the sunrise had dimmed into an eerie, overcast violet, as if the estate existed in perpetual twilight. The manor had loomed alpine above her. Even though blades were useless against the witch, Anya felt weak and exposed without her weapons. But there was no entering the manor with them.
And besides, Ortolan Gander had never held a hatchet in his life. And, though she barely knew how to use it, she did have Sy’s pen.
Better yet, she had a plan.
The parlor was as white and unadorned as the rest of the cavernous home, except for the gray settee and sofa, and a black iron poker by the empty fireplace. The fiddlehead footman stood planted beside it, ready should his mistress need accommodating, or should Bosquet Mire’s visitor need subduing.
Mira leaned casually against the arm of the sofa, glowing a sunlit orange, the center of the room no matter where she stood.
And Sy stood beside his mistress, utterly unrecognizable, watching the witch with all the servile attention of an affection-starved house cat. Anya knew if she ran a finger along the length of his bare arm, she would find no stabbing wound, no angry veins, no lingering bruise. But Mira’s bond had transformed him more than his own spell had – his hair paler, dressed all in white, fawning over someone he would ordinarily despise. Barely a shade of himself.
Even then, he was all she could see.
And while Ortolan Gander, spellscribe and king’s emissary, might find Sy attractive, he certainly would not wish to offend his hostess by staring at her familiar like a lovesick fool.
Nothing would give Anya away quicker than that.
Sabina, delighted with such clay to mold, had done a thorough job of disguising her – and, much to the spellscribe’s quick disappointment and eternal chagrin, of making her look plain. In the end, after copious grumbling about “waste of bloodandtalent,” Anya had won. Outwardly, she was unrecognizable. Nonthreatening. The rest was up to her.
There had been a moment, at the door, she thought she had given up the game. But she couldn’t help herself. Seeing him in the doorway, alone with him for even a moment, she’d forgotten everything but that he was in front of her, that he was alive. She forgot she wasn’t supposed to know him; forgot the enchantment upon him; forgot the danger she was in.
