—weaving, weaving. Even when she’s exhausted and hungry, and her magic can no longer soothe her tired body, she keeps on working.


    Shikra’s hand touches the back of her neck, and a wonderful rejuvenation soars through her. “You’re doing so well.”


    She’s never felt prouder.


    *


    Valerie and the Admiral stared at each other for a split second. Then they both leapt up and dashed out of the lounge. She got to the kitchen first, stopping in the doorway.


    The Admiral almost bumped into her. “What in the Divine’s name is going on?”


    Valerie’s eyes widened, taking in the scene. They had arrived in the middle of a scuffle: Avon and his manservant grabbed Anwen by the arms, and to her astonishment the old scholar was waving a carving knife, the blade flashing in the sunlight. Her maidservant, Cilla, cowered by the stove, head in her hands. It was she who had screamed.


    “Uncle! Help me!” Avon cried.


    His uncle strode forward as Avon twisted Anwen’s wrist, forcing the old man to yelp and drop the blade. Anwen tried to stoop for the knife, but the Admiral and the servant restrained him. Blood trickled from a thin cut on Anwen’s throat; the whites of his eyes were visible. He looked quite deranged.


    He looked like a man possessed.


    “Let me go!” he panted. “Let me go!”


    “Bloody hell!” said the Admiral. “What’s gotten into him?”


    Avon picked up the carving knife. Cilla sobbed in the corner. Heart racing, Valerie took a step forward, and her eyes alighted on the silvertree seedling on the windowsill.


    “Get him out of the kitchen!” she said. “Now!”


    She moved around the table, putting it between her and Anwen as the Admiral and Avon’s manservant dragged him out. Avon put the knife down on the counter. Before he could follow them, she set a hand on his arm.


    “What happened?”


    He looked at her with eyes like flint. “He told me about the queen. And the book.”


    “We need to find it,” she said at once. “Where’s his luggage?”


    He showed her to the hallway where Anwen had dropped his travelling case, then hurried off to check on the scholar. Valerie knelt down and opened the case. A pile of books and papers fell out, but she didn’t need to rummage through them. One stood out instantly: a thick leather-bound tome, dull-red and worn and brimming with magic. A Book of Shadows.


    But not just any Book of Shadows. Valerie picked it up and stared at the name embossed on the cover with a mixture of fear and triumph.


    “Shikra,” she whispered.


    This was how the queen had communicated with Anwen. And he hadn’t told a soul—until now.


    Avon’s hand descended on her shoulder and she jumped. He’d returned quickly.


    “That’s the book?”


    She nodded, holding it out to him. “Burn it.”


    *


    Half an hour later, Valerie returned to the lounge with her hair freshly pinned up. She couldn’t risk Anwen coming into contact with the locket, so she’d hidden it in the bedchamber. Meanwhile, the other gentlemen had gathered around the fireplace. The Admiral quaffed an enormous glass of whisky. Anwen stared at his hands in his lap. Avon tossed the offending Book of Shadows into the fire that now crackled before them. But even with the dancing light and shadow, the room seemed to fade around her, as if the lack of magic made the world dimmer.


    “Well,” said the Admiral, “what the blazes was that?”


    Valerie joined Anwen on the couch, reaching out to pat his arm. Cilla had bandaged the shallow cut on his neck, yet he looked frail, tired in a way she hadn’t seen before. She felt a burst of pity.


    “He was cursed.” She looked up at the two gentlemen. “That’s what a curse looks like.”


    Avon leaned by the mantelpiece, arms folded, face dark. “He almost slit his own throat.”


    “Anwen,” she said gently. “Can you tell us what happened?”


    For the first time, the old scholar met her eyes, and she saw tears glistening in his. “Forgive me,” he said in a quavering voice. He looked at Avon, then at the Admiral in his armchair. “Forgive me. I meant to tell you as soon as I landed. I… I betrayed the Empire. There was a fog over my eyes. I don’t know how to describe it.”


    “You didn’t betray anyone.” Valerie swallowed. “Did anyone else know about the book before today?”


    Anwen shook his head. “She told me to keep it a secret, and I…”


    “You did what she told you.”


    “Divine mercy,” said the Admiral. “That book?” He pointed to the smouldering remains of the Book of Shadows in the fireplace. “He was controlled by a book?”


    Valerie looked at Avon. These were secrets they had shared with no one but each other. Avon had brought his uncle here to get his support, but she wasn’t certain how much to tell him.


    “Not exactly,” said Avon. “There are still artefacts in Maskamere that were enchanted by the queen. This was one of them.”


    Close enough to the truth that it almost wasn’t a lie. Her favourite kind. Valerie clasped her hands, letting out a quiet sigh of relief.


    The Admiral frowned. “The queen of Maskamere?”


    “No, no,” Anwen muttered. “The queen was a wonderful lady. She would never have done such a thing.”


    “You told Lord Avon about the book, right?” She searched Anwen’s face. “Did something happen when you entered the lodge?”


    “I don’t know.” Anwen spoke slowly, halting several times. She hated seeing him like this, drained of his usual energy. He loved magic so much, and the queen had used him in the most hideous way. “I arrived consumed by guilt… Because of what I had done, you know. When I confessed to Lord Avon, I felt such relief. A great weight lifted from my shoulders. Then the next moment, all I knew was that I had to die. I don’t know what came over me. Madness, a temporary madness…”


    “The curse,” said Valerie. She cleared her throat, addressing them all. “I think this is what happened. The queen used the book to bewitch Anwen. If he ever told anyone about it, he would take his own life. As long as Anwen was in Maskamere, he stayed under the queen’s spell, so he kept quiet. But then you summoned him to Drakon.”Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    She looked at Avon, who was watching her intently. The room was dead silent. Valerie continued:


    “Magic only works if you’re near a silvertree. Anwen had the seedling. Then he arrived here, and he separated from the seedling when he talked to Lord Avon. He wasn’t bewitched anymore.”


    “Which meant he could tell me about the book,” said Avon.


    She nodded. They were simplifying the story for the Admiral’s sake—Anwen had spent at least one day away from the seedling, but it didn’t matter. The effect was the same.


    “The seedling was in the kitchen,” she said. “As soon as he went near it, the curse kicked in.”


    The Admiral leaned forward, frowning. “So… If Master Anwen returns to the silvertree…”


    “He’ll try to kill himself again,” Valerie finished. “He won’t have a choice.”


    No one spoke. Avon and his uncle exchanged a look, their faces serious. Anwen was watching her with a dreadful sort of acceptance, like an old dog that knew it didn’t have long to live. Her insides squirmed. She had just realised what this meant for him.


    “Can you break the curse?” Avon asked, anticipating her line of thought.


    Anwen stirred. A glimmer of hope shone in his eyes.


    Valerie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Anwen. I don’t know how.”


    The old man’s face fell. She looked away.


    “Well,” said Avon, “this wasn’t the demonstration I intended for today, but I think it’s quite sufficient. Master Anwen, you’ve had a shock. Why don’t you get some rest? We’ll talk again when you’ve recovered.”


    “Of course.” Anwen smiled a papery smile. “My lord, I…”


    “No need to apologise.” Avon walked over and helped the old man stand up. “There’s nothing to forgive.”


    *


    As night fell, the quiet that descended over the lodge felt as tangible as breath. The fire died down to an ember. The servants retreated to their beds. Valerie undid her hair, letting it fall loose down her back, then smoothed down her nightdress with a little shiver.


    “Are you cold? I can stoke the fire.”


    She turned around. Avon regarded her from the couch, his brows knitted in concern. He had the only blanket. And she had nowhere else to go.


    That was her fault. Valerie had wanted to speak to Anwen before they retired, but he was out like a light. Consequently, they’d been presented with an unexpected problem: the lodge only had two bedchambers, one of which Anwen had taken. The other sleeping quarters belonged to the servants.


    “Oh, don’t fuss,” the Admiral had said. “I’ve slept in cabins stinking of bilge water. I’ll kip right here.”


    He’d patted the couch.


    “That’s very kind of you, my lord,” she had replied, “but you’re our guest, and we couldn’t leave you without a bed, could we?”


    She’d given Avon a pointed look as she said that. In Maskamere, it would have been unthinkable to make a guest sleep on the couch or floor. Whether the same was true in Drakon, she didn’t know, but the argument had worked. Avon insisted that his uncle take the other room—the one that she had slept in the previous night—and the Admiral had eventually given in.


    Which was how she found herself here, in this ugly room with the dead animal heads and the wolf skin rug and the cabinet of guns—and Avon in his nightclothes. His loose shirt exposed the hollow of his throat. He was barefoot. She found her throat stuck and cleared it, annoyed at the jitters in her stomach.


    “Or you could give me the blanket.”


    She made him move up, stealing the blanket, which was fluffy and soft. Rabbit fur, she thought, if she had to guess.


    He leaned back, seemingly unperturbed. “So what did you think of my uncle?”


    “I like him more than your father.”


    “I assume that’s a low bar.”


    She recalled their conversation with the Admiral. “You never told me that you were obsessed with Maskamere before. How come?”


    “Obsessed is a strong word.” He frowned. “Besides, I didn’t want to admit any…”


    “Weakness,” she finished.


    “Every one of them is like handing you a knife.”


    She couldn’t deny it. Thinking back over the evenings they’d spent together… Even when she thought she’d been building his trust, the opposite had been true. But seeing what the queen had done to Anwen today, she understood why. How could you trust anyone with that kind of power?


    And here she was hogging the blanket to herself.


    On impulse, Valerie shifted to curl up next to Avon and threw the cover over both of them.


    He blinked. “Valerie…”


    She tucked her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Help me warm up.” His body was much hotter than the blanket. She rested her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Do you have any doubts? After what happened with Anwen today?”


    She sensed his heart rate increase, then return to its normal rhythm. “About magic? Or about you?”


    “Either. Both.”


    He put his arm around her. They fit easily together, and it occurred to her that she’d never been held by a father. This fact had never bothered her before. The thought disturbed her, and she pushed it away.


    “It would be foolish for me to say that I’ve never had doubts.” Avon spoke slowly but carefully. She could tell he was considering every word. “Today was another reminder of why I’ve been right to hold you at arm’s length.”


    “Arm’s length?” she teased. He was anything but arm’s length. She could sniff his hair if she wanted.


    “You know what I mean. I noticed something else.” He looked down at her, Valerie tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “My uncle thinks we need to know why my father started the war with Maskamere to understand why he won’t support me now. The exact same thing your queen wants to know. Isn’t that convenient?”


    She was tempted to joke about bewitching him. But it didn’t feel right, not when she was hiding the locket from him, and not when he was on the verge of being vulnerable. She opened and closed her mouth, then looked down, shaking her head.


    “Yeah, it’s strange. Your uncle said that the Emperor changed after their mother died. Your grandfather was an Ambassador to Maskamere, right?”


    There had to be something in this tangled history. Avon’s grandfather had stolen Maska’s sword. Which meant that somewhere, somehow, he had beaten the queen. The timeline had continued.


    “And your grandmother,” she went on. “Was she connected to Maskamere too?”


    Avon shook his head. “She was a well-bred Yironian noblewoman, and she never set foot outside Drakonian borders. Grandfather was the one who told us stories of Maskamere.”


    How odd, she thought. Maybe there wasn''t a Maskamery connection after all. The Emperor had some explaining to do.


    She snuggled closer to Avon. “What kind of stories?”


    He smiled. “Witches and warlocks and curses. Fairy tales to scare children. I think most of them were made up. But sometimes he’d talk about his own experiences, things he had encountered himself… The silvertrees, the healing fountains, the wishing wells… And I thought it sounded wonderful. Even if it was dangerous, I couldn’t help but want to go there myself.”


    “You always saw magic differently then,” she said. “Compared to other Drakonians.”


    “I don’t think I quite appreciated the scale of the difference until recently.”


    “And you like witches,” she teased him.


    “Those wicked, wild creatures?” he said. “Whatever gave you that impression?”


    “Did you ever want to be a sorcerer yourself? Receive the blessing?”


    “I didn’t think of it like that. I…” He stopped.


    “What?”


    “I don’t want to say.”


    “Oh, come on. It can’t be worse than”—she gave a mock gasp—“liking witches.”


    He chuckled. “Well, I… Growing up, I believed that all witches were women. Those were the tales we heard about Maskamere. So it didn’t occur to me that sorcery might be possible for myself. There were other stories too. The Black Knights of Drakon, Yironian legends of sirens and sea dragons… And in all those stories, I never imagined myself a sorcerer. I imagined myself a knight.”


    “What’s a knight?”


    She pictured him dressed in black—not hard, since he nearly always did already—stalking about the shadows with his sword at his hip.


    “A warrior.” He paused. “More than that, a protector. Your queen had her own elite guard, did she not?”


    “Yes. The Vipers. You killed the last of them.”


    He gave a wry smile. “I suppose I was always more noble in my head than reality ever allowed.”


    “But you dreamed about protecting us. Is that what you’re saying?”


    “That would be a lie. I killed most of you. Even you.”


    “But you’re protecting me now.”


    In his own way, which she didn’t always like, but she’d survived this far, and she had to give him some credit for that. Right now, wrapped up in his arms with the velvety blanket around them, she felt safe and warm and comfortable. She liked this feeling. She didn’t experience it often.


    Avon sat up slightly, drawing back to look her square in the eye. His fingers brushed her hair, and she thought that perhaps he’d kiss her and that she’d kiss him back, but instead he frowned. He seemed to be searching her face, but she didn’t know what for.


    He sighed. “Are you going to kill my father, Val?”


    That caught her by surprise. “No. Why would you say that?”


    “You know why.”


    “I’m not. I’m not, I swear it.” She took his hand, holding it against her cheek. “Do you really think I’m that bloodthirsty?”


    “Do you think you’re not?”


    They stared at each other. Her heart rate quickened. She didn’t know what she was feeling, a slow jumble of emotions bubbling inside her. But she read his face, and she found a flicker of darkness there, hidden, deep, deep in his eyes, behind the care, behind the want, behind the strange mix of suspicion and trust. How he must be restraining himself. Perhaps that flicker stopped him. She recognised it as the same darkness that had burned in her: fear.


    After all this time, they still hadn’t let that go. But it gave her focus, one emotion winning out over all the others. She was a girl in her nightdress without magic, and he still feared her.


    She would take that as a victory.


    “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s good that you’re a little bit afraid of me. I don’t ever want you to take me for granted.”


    A tiny frown creased Avon’s forehead. Valerie pressed herself against his chest and lay there like a cat that wouldn’t move from his lap. He stroked her hair until presently she fell into slumber.