Page 44 of The Artist and the Dragon

His thoughts exactly.

“We’ve had a letter from Lydia.” She lifted it for emphasis.

Beside him, Malik heard Drystan suck in a breath before blowing it out. “Please say it’s good news.”

At her short nod, he released a held breath. They needed some positive turn.

“The bribes of the staff seem to be working. Kent has been effective in turning away a few nosy people who have tried to stop by for a visit. Bothering the king and queen on their wedding moon.” She tsked, shaking her head. “Otherwise, they have kept the estate locked down save for food deliveries, which Kent oversees. Lydia remarks on the beauty and peace of the estate. However…” Her lips twisted.

The king tensed once more, bracing for bad news.

“However?” Malik prodded.

“Well…” She flipped the letter open again, frowned at something in it, and folded it back up. “It’s hard to say, but it sounds like there might be some strife between her and Adair, though she was wise enough not to say what.” She folded the letter again and set it aside. “I’m sure they’ll work it out.”

“That brother of yours,” Drystan grumbled.

Bronwyn winced and gave a little shrug. There wasn’t much to be done about it now. “Perhaps your attempt will bring us more good news?”

Bronwyn and Drystan kept a careful distance from Malik as he made a precise cut on his arm, collected the blood, and began painting the workings on sheets of paper. That, they believed, would be the place to start. A safer option than trying a new spell on the queen’s body directly.

With the book beside him, Malik did his best to focus on the design of the spell and channel his magic and will into it. New spells were tricky. Often, he had to practice many times before he got it just right, and many more to be able to work it from memory like some of his healing spells.

And getting more than simply minor effect? That could take years of practice.

Sweat beaded on the back of Malik’s neck. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d tried to work the spell, failed, crumpled up the paper, and started afresh.

He blew air through his nose in frustration, about start over once more, when the blood working slowly vanished. He gasped and leaned back.

“What is it?” Bronwyn was on her feet in a heartbeat and rushed over.

Drystan was slower to rise, almost like weariness and fear of disappointment held him back. Even when he did, he barely moved a foot from his chair.

“I think it may be working,” Malik replied. “Something is happening. The blood only vanishes when the spell holds.”

A moment later, only an empty-looking piece of paper remained. He and Bronwyn shared a look. “Should we try?” she asked at last.

“Be my guest.”

Bronwyn lifted the paper carefully by one edge and carried it to her sister’s sleeping form. Malik followed.

“So, I just…” She laid the paper on her sister’s arm.

A moment passed. Then another. And, slowly, a circular section of the paper began to darken.

Bronwyn grabbed Malik’s arm. The touch was light and fleeting, there and then gone, and she did not look at him, almost like she’d done it without thinking. But he noticed. His breath hitched as he snapped his attention to her, all his focus glued not to the spell he worked but to the bare section of his forearm below his rolled-up sleeve, where she’d touched him. The feel of her soft fingers lingered like a brand.

“It worked.” The note of awe in her voice stirred something low in his abdomen.

“It did.”

They worked late into the night. Or, rather, Malik did, successfully working the spell on more pages. Gwen and Jaina brought dinner—quite the task, taking the food through the secret corridors without spilling it.

The prince’s efforts yielded two important pieces of information: the new spell he’d worked could detect dark magic within about three to four feet, but it was not precise enough to pinpoint its location within the sleeping queen. Or, more unfortunately—and more likely, Malik believed—the curse lingered throughout her and could not be isolated.

“So, it’s useless after all.” Drystan threw himself down in his chair, sending its legs scraping against the floor as it absorbed his weight.

Bronwyn stared at the dark spot on one of the sheets of paper. “Maybe not.”

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