Page 102 of The Witch Queen

“Last time? What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Jacquetta admits. “The courtiers I spoke to either didn’t know or wouldn’t share. But I did learn about the other family who was involved. The Hastings, apparently.”

“Hastings,” I echo, trying and failing to place the name. “I haven’t heard of them.”

“No surprise there,” she says. “They’re dead. All of them.”

“All?From what?”

She lifts a shoulder. “There were rumors of plague or something. But from what I understand, there was plenty of speculation that their deaths were sanctioned.”

The wind picks up, carrying the call of a crow.

“So they were murdered? The entire family?”

“That’s what was suggested,” Jacquetta confirms. “If it’s true, whatever they did must have been spectacularly awful.”

I puzzle over this. What could the Hastings have been involved with that would warrant their unofficial executions? And what was Margaret’s part in it?

“That’s good work,” I say to Jacquetta.

“Well, don’t look so shocked,” she replies primly.

“The night’s not over yet,” I remind her. “Keep digging. The more we know, the better.”

“Fine,” she says with a sigh. She looks around us. “What is this place, anyway?”

“A garden. It belonged to Queen Sybil.”

Jacquetta frowns. “It’s the saddest garden I’ve ever seen.”

She’s not wrong. I wasn’t paying much attention before, but now I take in the decaying trees and withered husks of forgotten rosebushes. But, for once, I cannot blame the state of this garden on Malum. I neglected it on purpose. Every time I saw it, all I could think about was Sybil. Her kindness. Her innate, quiet strength. The promise I made to her on the night she died: to take care of Blodwyn. A vow I let shrivel and die like the flowers that used to thrive here.

Almost involuntarily, my gaze tracks up, landing on the seven stars of the Spirits’ Mirror. This time, though, I don’t wonder if it’s Rhea looking out at me from the darkness, but someone else.

“We should go back,” I say, tucking my emotions away where they belong. “We’re wasting time out here.”

Jacquetta follows me, but we don’t get two steps before a low growl rumbles nearby.

My shadows instantly surround me as a shape begins to materialize in the darkness. I catch the shine of a single crimson eye.

“Nox,” I breathe, relief flooding me. After what Shade said, I was worried I’d never see him again.

“Is that a Nevenwolf?” Jacquetta asks, horrified.

She starts muttering the words of a spell, but I signal for her to stop.

“Don’t. He won’t harm you.”

In fact, Nox doesn’t look well. His steps are crooked and he keeps his head low. After a few more paces in our direction, he abruptly collapses. I hurry over and kneel beside him. There’s a huge gash on his left side, just beneath his ribs. Nox’s dark, tar-like Nevenwolf blood seeps between my fingers.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jacquetta asks, keeping her distance.

“I don’t know. He was injured during the hunt, but he should have healed by now.”

Why hasn’t he? Beneath my hands, Nox’s breathing is ragged and shallow. His crimson eye watches me with what is unmistakable pleading.

“Just hold on,” I murmur to him.