Page 104 of The Black Witch

Sniffling, I look past Priest Simitri’s shoulder to the oil painting that dominates the lecture hall—two Gardnerian soldiers, wands drawn, boldly facing off against four red-eyed Icarals with black wings unfurled.Outnumbered by Icarals. Just like me.

I sniff again and nod, keenly aware of how exhausted I am, like an anchor sunk to the ocean’s great depths. “The Icarals frighten me,” I tell him. “I’m...I’m not sleeping well.”

He nods in grave understanding and squeezes my arm. “Stay strong, Elloren. The Golden Age is coming. The Black Witch will rise, and she will smite them all. The Icarals, the Kelts, the shapeshifters—allthe infidel races.”

Yes, but if it’s Fallon Bane, she might smite me, too.

His eyes are fixed on me, intent on my absorbing the full weight of the Prophecy. I want to take solace in his words as I rub at the scar encircling my wrist. I want to believe that there’s another Black Witch on her way to usher in a world without cruelty and evil. But I can feel myself succumbing to doubt and a darker and darker melancholy.

Reluctant as I am to go against my uncle’s wishes, I know that if nothing changes, I will eventually buckle and fast to Lukas Grey—or practically anyone my aunt wants—just to get out of my North Tower dungeon.

* * *

That evening I find myself passed out in the kitchen, the side of my face down on a blueberry tart I’m supposed to be assembling. The sticky berry jam is all over my cheek, temple and hair as my eyes flutter open. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been lying there. Everyone is long gone, save Iris Morgaine. Yvan enters the kitchen from outside, a load of wood in his arm for tomorrow morning’s fires. I freeze, not wanting to alert them to my presence.

Iris bounds over to Yvan as he drops the firewood onto the kitchen’s wood rack. “Here, taste this,” she playfully flirts, offering up a piece of pastry to him.

“My hands are filthy,” he says with a slight smile.

“Just open your mouth,” she cajoles, her voice sultry. She leans into him and holds the food up to his lips.

He awkwardly complies, and she slides the food into his mouth, letting her thumb linger on his lower lip to wipe away a small smear of berry.

He’s so attractive when he’s not busy glaring at me, his full lips so at odds with the sharp lines of his face, his eyes like sunlight through green glass. I’m momentarily overwhelmed by how handsome he is.

I remind myself that he’s a Kelt, likely no different from the boy who seduced Sage into breaking her wandfasting. There’s also the undeniable fact that he can’t stand the sight of me.

“What do you think?” Iris asks, still leaning into him.

“It’s good,” he mumbles through the food, his eyes intense on her.

“Would you like more?” It’s clear from her tone that she’s not only offering up the pastry.

Yvan swallows as if mesmerized.

“Oh, I got some on your chin,” she purrs.

He steps back a fraction. “It’s okay.”

Undaunted, she reaches up with one hand to stroke pastry crumbs off his chin, then leans in to playfully nuzzle his neck.

He freezes uncomfortably and looks to be fighting off a whole range of powerful emotions. “Iris...”

A surge of hateful jealousy courses over me, seeing them like this.

Here I am, with a whole pan of berry tart stuck to my head and my tongue stained blue from boswillin tincture to ward off a persistent chest cold from sleeping in an icy tower. My general appearance is a shambles these days—even the fine clothes Aunt Vyvian bought me can’t disguise the sorry state I’m in. Watching Iris Morgaine, the girl who once attacked me, having so muchfunwith absurdly gorgeous Yvan Guriel adds a spark to a resentment so raw, its force surprises me. I want to burst into tears and throw the bowl of jam at them all at the same time.

As if sensing my rancid thoughts, Yvan’s gaze shifts to rest hard on me. A mortified flush sears my face.

I pull my head off the tart, humiliated by the indentation my face has left in the jam and dough.

Iris spots me as well, every trace of playfulness erased from her expression. She whispers something into Yvan’s ear.

“No, I didn’t know she was here,” he says, his eyes still riveted hard on mine.

Iris hisses something else at him and then storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Yvan is still glaring at me hotly, reveling in my wretched state, no doubt—the powerless granddaughter of Carnissa Gardner, brought so terribly low.

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