“Aye?”
“This is not the hour for bees?—”
“The bees know more of God’s workings than most men,” Huck said, setting the honey jar on the nearest chest with great care. “And they were troubled.”
Hob made the sign of the cross again. “The bees were troubled?” He peered into the corridor and then shut the door again.
“Aye.”
“Saints preserve us.”
“That is rather the hope,” Huck said, then looked at Amelia, and all the jest left his round, weathered face. “Child.”
Amelia swallowed. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Nay,” Huck said gently. “But I think you know what it wants.”
The room seemed to shrink around them. Rain struck harder, drumming against wood and stone. Wind pressed at the shutters. The candles leaned, flames stretching blue at their tips.
The sapphire pulsed again. Amelia flinched as if the sword had called her name.
Thomas stepped around the table and put himself between her and the blade.
“You don’t have to touch it.”
She laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll put it away in the armory. Locked forever.”
“It won’t matter.”
“Then I’ll throw it in the river.”
Her eyes filled. “Please don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s yours.”
“I care nothing for a sword next to you.”
The words landed in the room with the force of a thrown gauntlet.
Hob went very still.
Huck’s mouth softened.
Amelia stared at Thomas, tears bright in her green eyes. For a breath, he thought she might reach for him instead of the sword.
But the sapphire flared again, brighter this time, and she turned toward it. Not choosing. Drawn. As if some invisible thread had been tied around her waist and tugged.
Thomas caught her wrist before she reached the table. Gently, because he would cut off his own hand before he bruised her. But he caught it.
Her gaze snapped to his hand.
He released her at once.
“Nay,” he said. “Not alone.”
