Page 45 of The Artist and the Dragon

“What do you mean?” Malik raked a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, it could not isolate the curse in my sister, no, but it did successfully detect dark magic. Not only the curse in Ceridwen but the presence of someone who…” She swallowed, her gaze flicking to Drystan and then away again. With her voice dropped to a whisper, she continued, “Someone who recently used dark magic. Right?”

Drystan nodded gravely. “I tried some spells a few nights ago.” He hung his head. “Not that it helped.”

“Anyhow,” she continued, her voice back to its normal level, “if we’d had such a spell weeks ago and used it effectively, we might have prevented the disaster after the wedding.”

Drystan snapped his head up and looked like he might balk, so Malik said, “Go on.”

Bronwyn nodded. “If we were to put these spells near the main entrances, we could detect when someone who has used dark magic, or is in possession of an item enchanted with it, comes into the castle.”

“You’re going to have everyone who comes in here—hundreds—hold a piece of paper?” the king asked. “There will be too many questions.”

Malik liked her suggestion, but Drystan was right. The city would be buzzing about the new strange ritual at the castle within the day.

“No.” Bronwyn folded the paper into a little square as she spoke. “Of course that wouldn’t work. But we can limit the entrances for a time and have something that everyone must walk near. A painting, perhaps? Some of the entryways are narrow enough that we’d certainly detect anyone passing that we don’t want ambling about.”

A tingling sensation raced up Malik’s arms. “Brilliant.”

Bronwyn turned to him, her lips parting in surprise.

Drystan, who’d been hunched over with his elbows on his knees, sat up a little straighter. “That … that could work.”

It could. It damn well could. And he knew just who the perfect artist would be.

“If I worked the spell on canvas, you could paint something around it,” Malik said to Bronwyn.

“Yes. I already have some ideas. They wouldn’t need to be large paintings or that elaborate. A moon would already be white, or certain flowers. Both appropriate subjects for a painting. And several of the entry halls already have art. We can simply switch out the old ones for new.”

“And if they all turn black on the first day?” Drystan asked.

“Then it’s better we know, don’t you think?” Her hard stare dared him to refute her.

“Indeed,” Malik agreed. “We should start tomorrow.”

Bronwyn nodded, then halted and frowned, her brow pinched. “My paints are at the opera house. I can bring them here, though I still have a poster I promised to do for Wynni, and I was going to work on touching up a few set pieces that may be hard to move...”

Malik stood, stretching. “We’ll do it there. I doubt Wynni will mind.”

“You mean to tell her?” Bronwyn asked, straightening in her seat.

“No. We keep this as quiet as possible. But I doubt she’d refuse to let you paint other things while you’re there.” Malik shrugged. “Has she ever? And I visit often enough for it not to be suspicious.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

So did he.

Chapter 19

Bronwyn

Anotherstrokeofdarkblue paint blended with the black, creating the surface of a calm lake at night. Bronwyn’s wrist ached from painting all day, but she wasn’t about to stop yet. It was all she’d done for the better part of three days, to the point that Wynni had asked on multiple occasions if she was really all right. Perhaps Bronwyn was becoming a decent actress after all, because she almost believed herself when she said she was. With a brush in hand and a beautiful work of art taking shape before her, she could almost forget why she was doing it. Could almost forget the clock that ticked ever closer to the moment her sister’s time would run out.

Art had been a passion for as long as Bronwyn could remember, but when her mother had died, it became an obsession. She’d have wasted away before an easel if Jaina had let her. At first, their family still had a decent amount of wealth, plenty of coin to purchase many varieties of paints and canvases for her to work on. It had not taken long for that to change, though. Mother’s death had affected them all in different ways, from her father’s poor investment decisions, to her brother’s stalwart dedication to the military, to Ceridwen’s more reserved demeanor and dedication to her music. Even Jaina lost some of her joviality, as had her husband Gerard, who still rarely smiled anymore, save these last few months when things had taken a brighter turn. Until the aftermath of the wedding, anyway.

A soft knock came at the door of her workroom.

“Come in,” she called, not bothering to look away from her painting.

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