Page 103 of Apprentice to the Villain

Benedict had seen that gift—and an opportunity. He’d made large claims of a cure to the Mystic Illness, promising that allBecky had to do was offer the use of her magic. Her mother had agreed for her; it hadn’t occurred to her to ask what Becky wanted.

“I followed all the rules you ever gave me,” Becky told her mother now in a low tone. “I walked a narrow line my entire life, and the only thing I got in return was censure for not wanting to give away what belonged to me.”

Renna flinched. “That was a terrible day. I let Benedict manipulate me into believing that your magic was the only way to cure your grandmother, and I was so desperate then. You know how we repel the crown; it was misguided. But things are different now. I’ve learned from my mistakes.”

Becky steeled herself, putting iron bars around her resolve. “Which ones? Letting Benedict leave after I refused you? Or when you tried to steal my magic anyway?”

A tear slipped down Renna’s cheek, but she quickly swiped it away, eyes darting to the far corner of the room. “Oh, please don’t touch that, dear,” Renna called to Clare, who’d wandered away from the bookshelf and was reaching out toward a large, stemmed flower by the window with pearl-like petals.

Clare tilted her head and moved her hand away. “This is a memory plant, yes?”

Tatianna frowned, still staring at the bookshelf. “What’s a memory plant?”

Becky remembered the rare flower from her childhood, tarnished as it was now in her eyes—there were only three left in the world, and two of them resided in the fortress. “It holds memories the way people do; it can even mimic them on occasion.” She pointedly looked at her mother. “And some people have attempted to use it in the past to siphon magic.”

Her mother flinched.

Clare leaned an ear down to listen to the flower, not reading the distress coming from Becky or her mother, but they all startledwhen Reid stormed into the room, boyish and rugged as always. “Hey, sis!” Reid waved at her, never overly affectionate. He’d always been her favorite. “We, um. The Villain is…”

Evie perked up, panic written all over her face. “He’s what?”

Reid’s eyes widened when he saw her, and he swallowed. “I think he’s dying.”

Chapter 62

The Villain

Trystan woke up with a start.

A wooden table sat in front of him, where his head had rested before he jolted awake. A dream. Had he dreamed the whole thing? Even the monster about to attack him from the dark?

The clanging of pots and pans rang in his ears until he was out of his seat and taking in the room.

This wasn’t the manor kitchen—this was…

“Make anything good today, brother?”

Malcolm?

His younger brother wandered into the room—and he was indeed younger. A teenager of no more than seventeen. Malcolm’s hair had been longer then, tied back from his head with a red bandana.

This was a hallucination. Something had put him here, but he couldn’t remember what or how, could barely remember details about himself. Anytime something solid formed, it fell through his fingers—like dust or happiness or dark, curly hair— Wait, whose hair?

Speaking of which, now that he noticed, his fingers were closed around something warm. It was a pie tray filled with sugared crust, and the intense smell of blueberry bloomed into a delicious aroma that warmed the small space of his childhood home’s kitchen. Someone was showing him a memory, thoughhe couldn’t pinpoint this specific one.

“He is not going to work for the king, Arthur! I refuse to allow it!”

Deadlands save him, that was his mother.

“You’re going to wreck the boy’s future over a petty feud. This will be good for him, Amara. He’ll socialize at court. All he does now is keep to his room and make up recipes all hours of the night. His only friend is Edwin! Don’t you hear the whispers about him from the rest of the village? Doesn’t it bother you?”

Oh. He did remember this now. The way one remembered being hit over the head with a large rock. “Tryst?” his little brother asked, concerned, already helping himself to a piece of pie.

“It’s nothing,” he whispered against the echo of his younger voice, his younger self.

It went dark again.

A familiar smell and the sound of agonized cries surrounded him—his cell; the darkness. His breath came in heavy rasps, and the memory of his cries came out of his mouth with no warning. “Benedict! Please! I’m sorry! I’ll be better—I swear it! I’ll give up my magic! Please come back! I don’t want to be evil!” He yelled and slammed his fists against the bars, sliding his hands down them until he fell to his knees. “Please come back for me.”