Page 12 of Gilded Locks

Jonathan smirked and stopped tossing. “Worrywart.” He shook the ice, eyebrows arching. “Liquid! Ha. What do you know, the journals were right.” He tossed the ice again. It twisted haphazardly. Time seemed caught in a moment of silence where the soft gurgle of sloshing gold was audible.

Jonathan was going to drop it.

Grace grabbed for the ice, but Jonathan was never one to accept defeat. Four scrambling arms wrestled as the ice slipped through their fingers in unpredictable movements and thudded to the ground.

Never had blood rushed from her face faster. The nauseating chill sent her into a dizzy panic.

She gingerly lifted the fallen piece of ice, ignoring the burning sting of cold, as her mind constructed terrible images of bubbling wood and a pool of gold spreading through solid substances like like blood diffuses in water.

Her hand shook as she examined the shell. If the gold was leaking, if it dripped onto her skin, what would the magic do to her? The records didn’t say. Would the metal embed itself within her flesh? Would it disfigure her, twisting around her limbs like it had on the trunk of the tree?

She found no cracks in the ice. With a hissing release of air, Grace closed her hand tightly around the frigid shell. She held it as far from her body as she could while returning it to the hidden compartment in the wall.

The movement set the gold sloshing within.

Liquid, Jonathan had said. It was the first time Grace had felt the proof that this form of Zerudorn gold existed. Years of records and research suggested that, under pressure, and when the magic was first acting, the solid metal liquified, spread, and then took on a new solid form. Even then, however, the spreading never truly ended unless the mystic power was dampened by the temporal dilation magic of enchanted or mystic ice.

“If you let the gold loose, we won’t have a chance to help the people,” Grace said to Jonathan as she re-pinned the cloth. “We’ll all be dead.”

“So the journals say,” he remarked, sauntering away, unfazed.

So the journals say,Grace thought now, as she eyed a collection of mystic liquids. That memory always urged her to consider these extracts too, though she was pretty sure the gold, while sitting untouched, would be solid. Grace picked up a vial of sweet-smelling yellow liquid and shook it gently. When it sloshed, a potent sweet aroma escaped the cork stopper and wafted up. She set it down. It was clearly not Zerudorn gold. Probably some watered-down honey or sap.

In the next instant, Russell was beside her, grabbing a vial. He shook it with a vigor that clearly stressed the vendor, who lunged toward Russell.

“Give that back, you brat.” The vendor swiped his hand toward Russell.

“Don’t talk that way to my brother,” Grace said, but she turned to Russell to stop him. He’d was being careless.

The vendor swiped at Russell again. Russell spun to keep hold of the vial, but it flew from his hand.

Grace’s stomach plummeted.

There was no telling what the mystic substance would do if the vial broke.

She dashed forward but was too far away.

At the last moment, a man Grace hadn’t noticed in the tent reached down and caught the vial.

Grace slowed her approach, looking to the man with gratitude on her lips, and found a familiar face.

“Garrick?” How quickly gratitude turned to annoyance.

With an averted gaze and a nod reminiscent of a bow, Garrick held out his hand. “Miss Robbins.”

She stared at the proffered vial, wondering what trick came with the gesture. Finally, she snatched the tube filled with something dark red from his hand.

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

Grace turned away quickly, her mind swirling with uncertainty. What was Garrick Clairmont doing in the mystic tent? Was it a coincidence or was there something more sinister to be feared? He might be here at his father’s bidding. That couldn’t mean anything good for Grace or Fidara; Grace knew how dangerous magic could be.

She returned the vial to the vendor.

Ever the salesman, the man pasted on a cheesy grin, as though he hadn’t just yelled at her brother.

“No, thank you,” Grace said, trying to halt the pitch before it started.

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