Page 70 of Silver in the Bone

“I don’t know,” Neve said. “There are many ways of using magic—just look at the Cunningfolk. They don’t use sigils, either. Maybe spellwork is just more ... instinctive for priestesses.”

“That could be why you were able to cast that incredible spell, Neve,” Cabell pointed out.

“I’ll ask Olwen,” Neve said. “I think we can learn a lot from each other.”

I nodded, letting the quiet dripping of water and splashing of nixies ease the tension between us.

My gaze drifted up over the nearest statue—the maiden. Her expression was knowing as her stone eyes watched over us, and it made me think of what Caitriona had said earlier about the security of knowing that a greater being was there to care for you in your life’s journey.

But I couldn’t imagine what god remained in this land darkened by death.

A half hour later, Betrys’s voice carried down the steps. “All finished?”

I stood from the water, wrapping myself in the towel and moving behind the maiden statue’s feet to dress. My wet hair dripped onto my shoulders, allowing the chill to cut deeper—and that was before I put on my sludge-soaked boots.

I hadn’t realized Neve had followed me over to change until I heard her gasp.

It took me a moment to understand what had startled her. I reached for my tunic, but she gripped my arm, turning me more fully toward her.

I tried to curl in on myself like a leaf, blood rushing to my face. For the first time since it happened, I’d managed to forget about the blue-black stain on the skin over my heart. It was shaped like a hideous, sinister star.

“Tamsin ... ,” Neve whispered, her eyes huge as she backed away. “That’s a death mark.”

I pulled my tunic over my head, my pulse fluttering with a strange panic. “No, it’s not.”

“You were touched by a spirit,” she said. “How did you survive?”

“It’s not,” I insisted, gripping my jacket and throwing it over my shoulders. A blisteringly white field of snow flashed in my mind, the incorporeal hand stretched toward me, the pain like a knife to the heart—

“What kind was it? A poltergeist? A wraith?” Neve pressed, trailing after me as I made my way back toward the stairs, where Cabell and Betrys waited.

I whirled on her, my face aching, my body as tight as a drum. “It’s not a death mark. That’s an old wives’ tale.”

Neve held up her hands. “All right. It’s not a death mark. Great Mother, relax, will you? I didn’t mean anything by it. Death marks are nothing to be ashamed of. Most people don’t even survive the touch.”

The silence between us was painfully awkward as we made our way back up the stairs. Cabell shot me a questioning look. I ignored it, letting exhaustion claim my thoughts. Let it empty my head of anything other than imagining the small stretch of floor I’d be able to lie down on for a few hours.

Betrys gave us each a looking-over in that silent way of hers, the scar on her right cheek somehow more pronounced with her frown. Rather than take us to one of the outer buildings or into the walls again, she led us to the tower itself.

In the shadowed light, it was hard to make out the details of the first level; it seemed to be a great hall, in which countless tables had been assembled in two long rows.

The aisle between them led to yet another ornate statue, this one of the Goddess herself, dignified in face and posture, colored bone white. Small bowls of unseen treasures, dried bundles of wheat, and dying flowers were arranged around her in offering. A candle flickered from a chamber carved into the center of her chest, turning the natural cracks in her stone surface to glowing veins.

The walls were painted as though the artist had wished to bring the forest inside. Something about the way the candles shivered and guttered along the tables and walls made it seem like the trees and flowering undergrowth were alive. As if we had been offered a glimpse into the isle’s past.

Neve came to stand beside me, and I followed her reverential gaze up to the chandeliers and the garlands of dried greens and flowers strung between them.

My heart gave an involuntary kick against my ribs. Why would they heap offerings upon the idol of the Goddess and lovingly decorate the hall when all it could ever be was a reminder of what they’d lost and would never get back?

“This way,” Betrys said gently.

To the far left was a large winding stone staircase, its walls carved into the body of the tree. As we climbed, there was a dull thudding in my ears, and I couldn’t tell if it came from my own heart or somewhere inside the tree.

The upper levels were a breathtaking meeting of tree and stone, seamlessly entangled like smoke and steam. On the second floor, I slowed, peering into an enormous open chamber. Dozens of sleeping people were spread across blankets and straw-stuffed mats. I scanned them quickly, searching without luck for Nash’s ugly mug.

Betrys brought us to the third floor, to a hallway lined with grim-faced doors. She opened the closest one, motioning to Neve and me. “I hope you won’t mind sharing ... ?”

Inside was a handsome four-poster bed that looked large enough to sleep an entire family. A simple tapestry of deer and birds hung along one wall, and there was already a fire in the hearth.

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