Page 78 of The Witch Queen

“What about the other Heirs?” I ask. “Have you asked them for help?”

“Of course I have. I’m not an idiot.”

That’s debatable. “And?”

“There’s nothing they can do,” Jacquetta says, though I notice the way she starts hacking away at the willowroot. “We all understood the risks when we agreed to the mission. If we get separated, we’re on our own.”

“So, they left her to die,” I drawl.

Jacquetta pauses. Looks at me over her shoulder. “No.Youdid.”

Rage smolders in my chest. And I want to snap back that I’m not the one who snuck over the mountain and blew up the Mines. But I don’t waste my breath. It doesn’t matter what I say. Jacquetta will blame me for everything.

“Are you done yet?” I ask instead. “It’s cold.”

In answer, Jacquetta yanks up a few handfuls of willowroot and shakes the dirt free. But then she pauses, examining one of her hands in the moonlight. A few drops of crimson glisten on her palm.

“Are you bleeding?” I ask, stepping closer.

“It’s not mine,” she replies, confused.

Another drop lands on her skin. I look up and realize that the source of the blood-colored liquid is the tree itself. Droplets hang like tiny garnets from the branches. They ooze out of the bark and run down the trunk, pooling at the roots.

“Just like the Mine,” I murmur, recalling the crypt.

The dead don’t bleed,Roland had said. Neither do trees.

“The Mine?” Jacquetta asks.

“Give me your knife,” I say, motioning for it.

“Why?”

“Just give it here.”

She grumbles, but hands me the blade. I use it to gather up some of the sap-like substance and lift it to my nose. It smells like flowers. Like roses and something softer—sweeter. But as the seconds pass, the smell abruptly alters. Its sweetness festers, turning to rot. I jerk back.

“What is it?” Jacquetta asks.

“You tell me.” I pass her the knife and she sniffs it, then makes a face.

“Ugh. How should I know?”

“I found the same substance in the crypt at the Mine,” I explain. “I assumed it was the fireroot you planted. The whole thing exploded as soon as a torch touched it.”

“We used fireroot,” she confirms, without a trace of remorse. “But that’s not what this is. You can smell it for yourself.”

Jacquetta hands back the knife and I inhale again, frowning. She’s right. There’s no telltale sting of sulfur or bite of ash.

“It looks exactly the same, though,” I say, brow furrowed.

“Maybe the fireroot got mixed up with it inside the Mine,” Jacquetta suggests. “Besides, how would whatweused be leaking out of this tree?”

It’s a good question. But if this isn’t the witches’ potion, what is it?

“Unless.” Jacquetta pauses, her lips pressing together. I know that look—it’s the same one that would cross her face at Stonehaven when she was worried about something.

“What?” I press.