Page 115 of The Diamond in the Rough

I didn’t lash out the way I had the first time. The way I had when I’d killed my uncle.

No, Garraway had seen that already. Would be expecting it.

This was a kind of reverse siphoning—pushing the magic I wanted Garraway to receive down the pathway he was already using, making sure that the magic he consumed would be tainted by deathly intentions.

And, then, when he started choking on it, gasping, his eyes wide, I pushed harder, forcing it down his throat like bitter medicine until I no longer had the strength or the magic left to push.

Darkness lapped at the edges of my vision and the air in my lungs felt thin as I collapsed back to the ground, sucking in dirt with the oxygen I so desperately needed.

I coughed weakly, tasting soil and grit.

My ears rang, and I couldn’t make words out of the sounds of men’s voices.

The blackness was winning, despite my desperate attempts to cling to consciousness, and I spared a thought to wonder whether or not anyone would ever find my body.

23

She sweptinto the room in her long gown, feet bare against the smooth floor. It was her personal indulgence—going barefoot. A secret little scandal that only she knew about.

Hemsy always got annoyed at her when he found out she wasn’t wearing shoes to the formal parties they hosted, but she felt more grounded, more in control when her feet were touching wood or stone or—preferably—earth.

He scoffed at that, too.

Called her a foolish, silly thing. Told her that their children had better not inherit her dirty magic.

She wondered if she would ever get up the courage to kill him while he slept.

She’d lost count of the number of times she’d considered it, watching him breathe, raspingly loudly, through his open mouth in the hours after he’d asserted his marital rights.

She didn’t really mind most of the time. She didn’t enjoy it, either, but she knew enough about the world to know that he was her only chance at children, so she put up with the rutting and the grunting, and then, in the darkness, would contemplatesmothering him with a pillow or slowly poisoning him or slitting his throat.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually do it, but the fantasies were nice.

I supposedI ought to be grateful that I wasn’t dead. At least not yet, although the aching cold in my bones was severe enough that I wasn’t sure how much longer I wouldn’t be.

I wondered who the woman had been, the one who had gone barefoot to her dinner parties. And what relation she bore to Garraway, if this was actually his house. The sense I got from the thoughts were that they were very old—so probably a grandmother or great-grandmother, or maybe great-aunt.

I wondered if he knew he was descended from a witch. What he thought about it, if he did.

I got the sense from his arrogance that he probably didn’t know—and he wouldn’t be happy about it.

I was tempted to tell him, just to make him have to suffer what he thought of as the indignity.

But in order to do that I would have to have the strength to speak, and I didn’t.

I also wasn’t sure I wanted him to know I was a psychic.

Or that I was awake.

“You have to get rid of him,” a new man’s voice snapped.

About me, presumably.

“He’s much stronger than we thought.” This was Garraway, excited. “I could get a lot of power from him.”

“Not worth it,” said the new voice.

“But Philip,” Garraway almost wheedled. “He’sso strong.”