Page 97 of The Crimson Throne
“Yes—” starts Alyth, but Moyra bats a hand her.
“Let him speak.”
I nod. “Um, yes. Samson.”
Moyra lifts her hands in front of my face, picking at things I can’t see. And it hits me then—not a bit of this place glows the way I’ve seen magic glow. And this woman’s a witch, right? So this whole place should be lit up with magic.
Is it only fae magic I can see?
Moyra hums, low in her throat, and meets my eyes, her fingers still picking and moving ’round my head. “I have a way of figuring out what you are, Samson. If you consent to it.”
“That wasn’t what we agreed,” Alyth is quick to say. “You would help us figure out what cursed him.”
Moyra nods absently. She pinches a bit of nothingness between her finger and thumb, studies it, and lets it drop. “Oh, this will. Whatever’s cursed him is embedded in him. Like it’s merged with the part of him that’s fae.”
“Merged?” My gut drops. “You can’t undo it?”
Her look is piercing. “Did I say that? Let me figure out what’s at the root of you, and we can go from there. If you agree?”
Alyth grunts in protest, but I’m already nodding.
“Yes. Yes, please, Lady Moyra.”
She cackles. “Oh my, Alyth! I see why you like this one. ‘Lady.’”
Moyra bolts up and starts shuffling around her table, bottles clacking.
Alyth leans toward me, and unconsciously, I rock to meet her. I want to reach for her, want to ground myself. It’s the unease of this whole situation, and the—the bloody hope still.
Can Moyra do it? Can she really find out what’s wrong with me?
I’ve lived with it for so many years. I accepted it too, thinking that was just how I’d always be, hurting people on whims I didn’t understand. I almost reconciled my life to being ostracized and alone, to never being fully safe.
But now.
Now.
Alyth touches my cheek, and I jump, realizing I was staring over her shoulder at the fire.
“You’ll be all right,” she whispers.
I exhale, but her words keep me from collapsing, and she strokes her fingers lightly down my jaw.
Moyra sweeps back over to us with a vial in one hand. It’s no bigger than my finger. “Drink it down, Samson. Every drop.”
I take the vial, fingers shaking.
“Cheers,” I say to Alyth, raising it toward her, and I down the whole potion in a single swallow.
It goes down smooth, no burn, and tastes of herbs, ones I can’t identify. Just earthy, rich flavors and something bitter on the back of it—mint?
But I don’t feel any different.
I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “I don’t think anything’s happen—”
25
Alyth
