Page 126 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“I suppose. They used something called a rune to trap me after I went through their portal. How come you never taught me about runes?”

“They’re an old, unsophisticated kind of magic. I didn’t want to waste our time.”

“They may be old, but they’re effective.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Did you catch any names?”

I tapped a nail against my glass. “There was Lenora—their leader, from what I could tell, an old crone named Catrin, and a boy named Geraint. He’s the one who helped me escape.”

“Helped you out of the goodness of his heart, did he?”

I shrugged. I recalled how much he reminded me of Arthur. He must have only been a few years younger than my friend was when I last saw him. “He just seemed like a confused kid. I felt kind of sorry for him.”

“I see. And what of the one who gave you these?” He gestured to my cheek, where three matching scratches sullied my sallow skin. The fumes from the sickly green poultice that Agnes had supplied me with stung my nostrils. Apparently, she had invented it to protect against infection. I grimaced. Letlas only knew what could have been lurking beneath the cloaked witch’s fingernails.

“Tell me about him,” Enhart urged.

“I can’t. I never saw his face.”

“Why would a stranger conceal their face from you?”

I blinked up at the prince. “I don’t know.”

“Could it have been someone you know?”

I racked my brain, trying to recall details about the cloaked figure. The more I did, though, the foggier his image seemed to become. I finally shook my head. “No, but he’s the one who looked into my mind when they brought me before the others. At almost every significant event in my life, it seemed.”

He cocked his head. “How significant?” The air between us was charged as he awaited the answer he already seemed to know.

My voice came out in a whisper. “He seemed particularly interested in the Ealdorfyre.”

Behind the prince, the fire crackled loudly, gilding his silhouette. “It’s a rare gift,” he said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “But I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

I rubbed my wrists, which were still an angry red where the imprint of the rope had been scored into my flesh. It had left invisible scars, too. The memory of how it had invaded my senses, leaving me vulnerable to the will of the strange witches, made me shudder.

“I don’t think that he told the others about it,” I said.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“You told me that the Ealdorfyre is a rare gift, but he insisted to the rest of them that I was nothing special.”

“That is a bit strange,” he replied. “Although I suppose we can’t know for certain what he showed them. Or why.”

I took another sip of whiskey, the drink soothing my pounding heart. I thought of Mordric, and how furious he would be when he heard of my disappearance.

“Has Mordric responded to your message?”

He grinned. “No, not even the king’s letters are delivered that fast. By the time he finds out, we’ll be well on our way back to Valnar.”

“Hm,” I said. At least he’d have some time to cool off before I arrived. “So what do we do now?”

He stood. “We return to Valnar, and quickly. The stakes are higher now.”

I glanced up at him. “Why?”

“Because they have your blood. We don’t know what they mean to do with it, but even so, it’s troubling.”

“It is?”