Page 96 of The Crimson Throne
Alyth sits, searching through her cloak, and finds the letter from Darnley’s room. She extends it to Moyra. “We won’t keep you long.”
Moyra takes it.
Then she looks up at me expectantly.
I rush to sit next to Alyth.
Moyra keeps right on staring at me, her eyes narrowed, her tongue caught between her teeth. She fiddles with the letter, making the glow it gives off pulse, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Hm. This one. Why’s he with you, Alyth?”
I almost don’t care that she’s talking about me like I’m not here, but Alyth must think I’ll react to that. She grabs my wrist.
“He’s a Leth, cursed by a Red Cap weapon. We were hoping you could tell us what cursed him. He’s anxious to break it.”
There’s that hope again, roiling in me like starvation, and I look up at Moyra, unabashed.
She’s chewing her tongue again. “And this letter?” She lifts it, not taking her eyes off me.
“Need the magic on it dissipated,” Alyth explains.
Moyra nods. “That’ll make us even, then?” She finally looks at Alyth.
Alyth drops her hold on my wrist. “Aye.”
“‘Aye.’ Aye. You know I don’t trust such simplicity from you fae.”
Alyth sighs. “Yes, if you break the magic concealing the letter and tell us what cursed Samson, you and I will be even.”
With a scrunched-nose grin, like this is all some joke, Moyra crosses one leg over the other. “That’s all I needed. Now—here.”
And she hands the letter back to Alyth.
But—it’s not glowing anymore.
What? When did she—
Alyth snorts, a soft little burst, and settles the letter in her lap. “Thank you, Moyra.”
Moyra’s smile is full on.
I think I might like her.
“That was so fast,” I can’t help but say.
Moyra waggles her eyebrows at Alyth. “The Well’s better than the fae, hm?”
Alyth gives me a flat look. “Thanks for that.”
I hold up my hands. “Sorry, I—” But I glance around, not seeing what Moyra mentioned. “A well?”
“The Well,” Moyra corrects. “The Well witches draw their magic from. Magic pools there, and witches can access it through focus in herbs and such. Not like the fae, with all their bloodline ties to the Seelie Court. Ever been to the Black Forest?”
I shake my head.
Moyra shrugs. “Probably for the best. You—” Her attention fixes back on me, intent and analytical. “You’d get picked apart there. What a fascinating thing you are.”
I hold myself steady, dropping into my facade of not letting myemotions show, not giving anything away. She’s still seeing something in me, something I don’t know to hide.
Moyra shifts again, scooching her chair so she’s between my knees, close enough that I smell the tang of dried herbs coming off her. “You’re cursed, you say?”
