Page 52 of Heir

I paced the kitchen, desperately trying to engage in some deep box breathing.

That didn’t work.

Next, I tried the whole “three things calming technique”.

Three things that I could see. Okay, I could see my aunt’s favorite china teacup with the pansies on it, sitting in the drying rack in the sink. I could see the yellow, potted ranunculus on her kitchen table perfectly trapped in a ray of sunshine bursting through her kitchen window. And I could see an old and batter-splattered picture of Aunt Delia and me dressed up like maidens at the Renaissance Fair, stuck to her fridge by a flower magnet. I’d been about fourteen at the time, and she hand-made both of our dresses. We went all out with our hair and outfits and it’d been one of the most wonderful and fun-filled days of my life. Emotion choked me and I gripped the counter to keep things in check.

Okay, three things I could see weren’t enough. I still wanted to kill Drak. I still wanted to scream, and my pulse raced like I’d just sprinted up a mountain.

I needed to keep going.

Three things that I could touch.

I ran my hand over Delia’s old, nearly see-through tea towel hanging over the oven handle. The towel with the chickens and pigs on it. I’d bought it for her one year for Christmas. I was probably no more than nine. I didn’t have a lot of money when I went shopping, but I did want to get her something. So I bought her a new tea towel. She said she loved it and that it was her favorite. It probably didn’t dry so much as a spoon anymore. It was so threadbare, but she refused to part with it or turn it into a rag.

Next, I ran the pad of a finger back and forth a few times over the bumpy and misshapen spoon rest in the middle of the stove. It was green and pink, and supposed to look like a lily pad and flower. I made it in eighth grade art class. It wasn’t very good, but I gave it to her for Mother’s Day and she once again said it was her favorite. And finally, I stroked the top of the bamboo cutting board she loved to use. I watched her for hours mincing herbs from her garden, or stripping them from their stems and letting them dry. There were thousands of deep, and shallow, slice marks that crisscrossed the wood grain. If I focused hard enough, I could even hear the rhythmic back and forth rocking motion of her ulu knife against the board.

A hot tear slid down my cheek.

And lastly, three things that I could smell. Sometimes I chose to find three things I could hear, but the fact that I could hear Kase and Zandren moving my aunt’s body wasn’t something I wanted to focus on right now.

I took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

Aunt Delia’s house always smelled of lavender. She said it calmed her and it reminded her of when she grew up. Apparently, her grandparents used to run a lavender farm. That was probably all I’d ever heard her speak of her family. Or at least that was all I could remember.

Another deep inhale, and this time I pulled in the smell of lemon.

I smiled at the lemon balm herb growing happily in a pot on her bright windowsill behind the sink.

I broke off a leaf and brought it up to my nose, inhaling deeper than ever.

Aunt Delia always made the most delicious-smelling soaps, shampoos, and creams. And she put lemon balm in her salads too.

One last inhale . . .

But I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t breathe. In or out.

I . . . I was choking. My throat seized, and I gripped it.

What . . . what was going on?

I stomped my foot loudly as panic flooded my mind.

I was going to die.

My aunt was just killed, and now it was my turn. Whoever killed her was lying in wait for me. They set a trap. Or they were still here and casting some kind of spell to suffocate me.

My eyes darted around the room in search of . . . something.

I grabbed the teacup in the drying rack and tossed it to the ground so it smashed.

Drak and Maxar raced in, their eyes wide.

“What’s the matter?” Maxar asked.

I gripped my throat and pointed.

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