Page 82 of The Crimson Throne
I shrug. “I’ve never actually seen anyone foolish enough to breaka sworn promise, but I reckon that’s a reasonable assumption of what might happen.” I look down at the bespelled parchment. “Anyway, I know someone who can help with this.” I pause, staring up at him. “Also,” I add gently, “she will likely also know about breaking whatever Red Cap weapon cursed you once we find it.”
He sucks in a breath, jaw tightening, the only indication of how much this means to him. Samson has such an expressive face—charming and handsome with a witty smile—but I realize that is also a mask. I hide in the shadows, and he glimmers in the sun, but it is rare for both of us to show our true faces.
On impulse, I step forward, cupping his cheek. I don’t want to give him hope, but I can’t bear the idea of my contact not being able to help him. Red Cap magic is so foul; for Samson to have spent almost his entire life under one of their curses is unbearable.
For a brief moment, he leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering closed. I can feel it him—that tension and fear that there might not be a cure. I don’t need to say it.
“Let’s go now,” I say softly.
He nods, opening his eyes, but rather than move, he drops his gaze to my lips. I feel a blush washing over my cheeks.
“We’ll have to ride,” I say, taking a step back and hoping to distract us both from the way he looks at me now. “Walking would take too long.”
“Good thing we’re already at the stables.” Samson raises his hand to Callum, who calls the other boys to ready two horses for us.
I ride astride, and I catch Samson watching me mount. Perhaps the English ladies are more used to the sidesaddle than I am. I at least have on an extra pair of woolen leggings. I pull my hood tight over my shoulders.
“Ready?” I ask.
Samson definitely doesn’t look as if he’s thrilled about the prospect of riding horseback again, but he just nods.
We don’t talk until we’re past the castle gates, and I take the lead, heading west, toward the village of Kippen.
“So where’re we heading, exactly?’” Samson starts in a voice that tells me he’s been working up the courage to ask. “And what might I expect there?”
“A bog,” I say breezily.
Samson kicks his horse to get a bit closer to mine. “I’m sorry, did you say you were taking me to a bog?”
“Mm,” I say.
“A bog.”
“Peat, marshy soil, lots of heather, bad drainage? Yes, a bog.”
Samson levels me with a flat look. “Why are you taking me to a bog?”
“To talk to a witch,” I say. “Obviously.”
“A bog witch?” Samson asks.
“She’s just a regular witch,” I say, “who happens to live near the bog.”
“Oh, of course,” he says with a falsely haughty tone. “What was I thinking?” He pauses. “You’re an important person in the fae world, yeah?”
The political hierarchy of the part-fae humans hidden in the shadows seems perhaps too much information to throw at the lad, so I just make a noise of assent in the back of my throat.
“Can’t you just summon this witch who happens to live near a bog to the castle?”
I snort. “No.”
He looks as if he wants to press me on that but then just mutters, “Witches don’t do house calls, got it.”
The road west is easy and well traveled, one I know well. If I veered south, it’d take me to my family’s estate at Mugdock Castle. Continue on, I’d reach Glasgow. We don’t have far to go, so I keep our horses at a moderate pace.
“About this witch,” Samson starts.
I eye him. “Makes you nervous, does she?”
