Page 18 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

“Halima, I put myself in harm’s way when I trusted her so blindly. That’s not your fault.” She looks unconvinced, but says nothing as I follow Ruskin down the corridor.

The brief conversation distracts me, and I’m not prepared for my emotions when Ruskin and I walk alone through his rooms. I’d not anticipated what it would be like being back here with him. My insides feel like they’re being pulled in opposite directions, twisting with the memories of what we shared here, yearning for them and pulling away from them at the same time.

The door to his bedroom is ajar and as we walk by it. I can’t resist glancing inside and I inhale sharply. Just a sliver of the room beyond is visible, but I can see that’s it’s been wrecked. Furniture is overturned, the bedding ripped from the mattress and torn into shreds, while one of its four posters displays deep gouges. Initially, my mind assumes there’d been some kind of attack—but no, Destan confirmed nothing like that had happened in my absence. Which means that…

I whip my head round to stare at Ruskin.

He’s looking ahead, his back still to me, and I wonder at the wild force of emotion that would drive him to destroy his room like that. Certainly, there’s no sign of that emotion now as we approach the wall I know conceals the entrance to the rose garden. His sculpted face is impassive as ever when he touches the bricks to open up the archway, then stands back for me to enter.

The rose garden is still beautiful, the scent of it enveloping me, and I can’t stop myself from reaching out to brush my fingers against a bloom as we walk towards Evanthe’s resting place. But the texture of the petals reminds me of running my hands across Ruskin’s jacket and I retract my fingers, bunching them into a fist.

When we’re at the far end of the garden, the bank of flowers there begins to shift. Their thick, thorny vines retract, sinking into the earth and revealing the still form of Evanthe Dawnsong. She looks like Cebba, but like Ruskin too, the exact shade of her dark brown hair sitting somewhere between the two. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch a finger to the hands folded across her chest. Her skin is warm.

The reality of what I’ve come here to do hits me—to undo the torture that nearly killed the most powerful of the Seelie fae, to heal a centuries-old wound.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admit.

“I know. I’ll help you.” Ruskin’s voice is as soft as it was when he was imploring me to help back at the cottage. “I had to learn my magic once too, you know.”

The idea of Ruskin as anything other than utterly powerful and competent feels absurd to me, but I suppose everyone had to start somewhere. And the fact that he believes I can do this helps shore up my confidence, at least a little. I want to do this, not just for him, but also for myself. He wasn’t entirely wrong when he tried to tempt me with learning more about my magic. Now that I’m here, I want to push myself, but I’m afraid of failing.

“What if it goes wrong? What if I hurt her?” I ask, the questions bursting out in spite of myself.

“There’s still magic in her that will protect her. It has been protecting her all this time, that’s why she’s still here and hasn’t succumbed to her injuries. You cannot hurt her more than she already has been.”

My heart aches at that last line, considering the cruelty of my world. I nod and look to him for instruction. It’s striking that he knows what I’m asking without me saying a word.

“You’ve only manipulated gold, but you’ve sensed other metals, haven’t you? Felt an awareness of them when you concentrate?”

I tense my jaw but nod.

His eyes glitter with satisfaction. I narrow my own.

“So?”

“So sensing is the best place to start with something like this.” He looks down at Evanthe. “You’ll have to find the iron first, and that will lead you to the damage. Once you have a clear picture of that, you can think about removing it.”

“A clear picture? I’ve never gotten an image. I just…know if it’s telling me something.”

“That gut feeling is the beginning. Your magic is like a pool of water, but the surface is constantly moving, covered in ripples, so you can never see your reflection.”

He must see the doubt on my face, because he takes a step closer.

“Close your eyes.”

“What?” I step back, and he doesn’t stop me, but when he speaks again, there’s a touch of impatience in his voice, likely brought on by my wariness.

“Just close your eyes and try to visualize what I’m describing.”

When he speaks next, his voice is closer to my ear, and I suppress a shiver. Knowing he’s nearby makes it harder to focus my thoughts, but I do my best to marshal them into the rippling pool Ruskin’s describing.

“Now, holding that picture in your mind, what happens to it when you wait? What happens to any pool of water?”

“The surface will eventually still, and then I’ll see my reflection clearly?” I guess.

“Exactly. Your magic is a naturally frenetic thing, you are the one who stills it. When you do, it becomes possible to see more clearly what it’s telling you, and to tell it what you need.”

I open my eyes and see his face is just inches from mine. I don’t flinch in surprise—I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I stare back at him, challenging him to look away first.

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