Page 54 of Malice

I chew my lips as I fuss with the kettle, my gaze flitting to where the deathknot stews in its brackish fluid.

Aurora doesn’t miss it. “What is that horrible thing?”

“Deathknot.” A patch of moldy fur on the deathknot’s bulbous end glares at me. It’s better that we just leave it in its jar. Better yet, drop it into the sea. “I picked it up from Hilde, my apothecary. It’s for the ritual.”

She needs no further explanation. The chair teeters as she flies across the room and snatches up the jar. “This looks like it could have come from Malterre itself.” She inspects every angle, fascinated and terrified at once.

Kind of like how she feels about you,that voice whispers. I smother it.

“It probably did. I don’t think Hilde has ever had someone ask for it.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?”

“It’s not quite that simple.” I push the mug into her hands and open the Nightseeker book, examining the looping script and faded diagram of the ritual for the hundredth time. “Are you certain about this? Because I’m not. This magic is clearly forbidden—I don’t know how your father would feel if he knew we were using it. But I imagine he wouldn’t approve.”

She sips the brew. Nods. “That’s fair.”

“It’s not just me I’m worried about,” I go on. “You, too.”

Aurora watches the jar as she thinks. “I know. And you’re right.”

Relief blooms in my gut, then just as quickly wilts at the look in her eyes. They’re determined and sure. Reckless.

“I’m worried about what will happen if we don’t use the book.” She sets down her mug. Her scent of appleblossoms twines with those of my enhancements. And I’m surprised at how much I’ve come to expect it here. “If I’m gone, what will happen to the realm?”

“I thought your mother was working with the Etherians. There must be some plan.” How can I make her understand? I don’t want to hurt her. Don’t want to see her face as the duke’s was—lips limned in blood and eyes glassy. “This is dangerous. It could—”

“Kill me?” She laughs. “So can the curse. I know you’re trying to protect me, Alyce, but I’m tired of feeling that my fate rests in someone else’s hands. Someone I don’t even know. That’s what killed my sisters—waiting and hoping. I won’t follow in their footsteps. And if I die because I’m trying to take some control over my own life, so be it.”

Dragon’s fucking teeth. I know exactly how she feels. It’s the same as my secret lessons with Kal. My arrangement with the king and my plan to take the gold he pays me and run.

“Fine.” I pour more water into her mug. “But the ritual only works if you have a connection to the person, or spirit, summoned.”

She sits back down, frowning. “We don’t have anything like that.”

“Actually…” This is the part I dreaded. “Because the Vila cursed you, I think we do.” Aurora gives me a puzzled look. “I think we could use your blood.”

“You want my blood,” she repeats. “For the summoning ritual?”

From her lips, I can hear the idiocy of the suggestion. A flush creeps up my neck.

But Aurora only picks up the nearest paring knife. “How much?”

We spend the next half an hour preparing. The diagram from the book must be drawn on the floor, a difficult feat since the stones are perpetually damp. I scatter sage and yew and other herbs inside the faint chalk lines. While I work on that, Aurora tends the fire, bringing my large iron kettle to a boil. The rain pounds against the walls of my Lair, rivulets of icy water sneaking in through loose stones and dripping down the chimney. The fire hisses and smokes.

“I doubt this will work,” I repeat, inspecting the curve of one of the lines. The design is not quite as well drawn as it is in the book. It’s clumsier and smeared in places where the chalk refused to stick to the wet stone. But passable. I hope.

“It’s worth a try.”

“That’s what the mortal armies used to say about invading Etheria.”

She ignores me. The steam from the boiling pot glistens on Aurora’s cheeks and tangles in her hair, curling the tiny wisps at her forehead. Even doing the work of a scullery maid, she’s beautiful.

I roundly scold myself for staring at her and add in the other ingredients. All that’s left is the deathknot. My chalk-covered fingers slip on the lid of the jar, and it almost crashes to the ground. But Aurora catches it.

“Last chance to turn back,” I say.

Instead of an answer, she grins. And then she slides the deathknot into the pot.