Page 130 of The Black Witch

“Icarals, Lupines—”A hidden Water Fae. “—and now you.”

Trystan shrugs slightly in response, suddenly looking very tired.

I gently nudge his foot. “I know you’re not evil, you know,” I softly tell him.

He nods back at me, seeming momentarily at a loss for words.

I sigh deeply, pressing my head back hard against the wall, staring up at the play of shadows on the ceiling rafters from the flickering fireplace and lamplight.

“I’m beginning to think it’s all hogwash anyway,” I tell him. “All this stuff about Evil Ones. But that doesn’t change the fact that everyone else seems to believe it.” I swivel my head on the wall to look at him with concern. “Trystan, I’m really worried about you now. I can’t...” Tears prick at my eyes as an unbidden image forms of Trystan being taken away, thrown into prison somewhere. A fierce urgency wells up inside me, accompanied by a very justified fear for my brother’s safety. “You’ve got to keep this secret.”

“I know, Ren,” he says softly.

“I’m not kidding. This is very dangerous. Promise me. Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise. I’ll be careful,” he assures me, and I know he’s being serious and humoring me at the same time. But it will have to be enough for now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

History

Over the next few days Yvan’s intense and aloof manner toward me begins to seriously chafe at my nerves, made worse by my sharp fear that Yvan knows Trystan’s secret. I take to nervously carrying on one-sided conversations with Yvan, desperate to engage him and win his favor.

This particular evening, we’re both cutting up a large pile of turnips, just about my least favorite kitchen task. Iris is kneading bread dough on the next table over, her flaxen hair tied up into pretty braids. I can feel her territorial attention on me, her eyes flitting up to glower at me every so often—a Gardnerian so unforgivably close toherYvan.

It stings to see Iris and Yvan together sometimes. To hear them laughing in a corner, to witness their easy camaraderie, her casual touches on his shoulder, his arm, his hand. It’s clear they’re old friends, but is there more?

Do they kiss in the shadows? Sneak off late at night to the barn’s dark loft?

I immediately chastise myself for having such thoughts.

Yvan’s a Kelt, and one who dislikes me intensely. I need to ignore how just the sight of him can set my blood racing. Being attracted to a Kelt is pointless enough. In this case, it’s more than a little bit dangerous.

Thoughts of Lukas suddenly come to mind, and I flush, wondering what he’d make of me privately mooning over a Kelt.

Ignoring Iris’s nasty looks, I lever my knife down on the hard root before me with a loudthwap. I find dealing with these starchy vegetables to be as enjoyable as trying to slice through rocks.

I’m relieved a few minutes later, when Iris finally wipes off her hands and steps out. Now is my chance to talk to Yvan, to try to win him to our side—to convince him not to reveal my brother’s secret.

My eyes flit toward him. “So, how are you this evening?” I ask in the most pleasant, honey-coated voice I can muster. Predictably, he just glowers at me briefly before focusing militantly on chopping up the turnips in front of him.

In desperation, I babble on and on about the weather, what I had for lunch, anything inane I can think of to spark his interest as Urisk kitchen workers come and go around us in the flurry of activity almost always present here.

“...And my aunt Vyvian just sent me some new dresses. I think she feels guilty about lodging me with Icarals.” I throw waxy turnip peels into a large, wooden bowl. “It was quite a surprise to get her gift,” I prattle on. “I think she’s trying to win me over via pleasant means, since punishment isn’t working. I’m wearing one of the dresses now. Isn’t it lovely?”

The dressislovely, with delicate Ironflowers embroidered in deep blue all over the midnight-black silk.

Yvan stops slicing turnips and pauses, stone-still, the newly sharpened knife clenched tight in his hand.“What?”he asks, his eyes two furious slits.

An actual response. Amazing.Though his tone isn’t exactly what I’d hoped it would be. “My dress,” I repeat congenially. “Isn’t the embroidery lovely?”

Yvan sets the knife carefully down on the table and swivels around in his chair to face me. “No,” he says, his voice heavy with disgust. “I think it’s revolting.”

I blink at Yvan in shock. Angry hurt pricks at my insides like tiny pins, and my face starts to flush. My eyes go hard on him. “You overwhelm me with your charm sometimes, do you know that?”

“Those clothes,” he continues caustically, gesturing sharply at my dress, “were made from the blood and sweat of slaves.”

“What are you talking about?” I counter. “Aunt Vyvian got them from a dress shop in Valgard.”

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