Page 172 of The Witch Queen

And it’s then that I realize their voice sounds familiar. As they approach the cottage, their features sharpen into focus: It’s a young woman, about my height with black hair and tawny skin. Is that—

“Verity?”

Surprise and relief rush through me. I burst out of the cottage and hurry across the yard to meet her. She grins at me and drops her bag. Throws her arms around me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, returning the embrace.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she remarks. “I thought you were dead!”

“I almost was,” I tell her as she lets me go. “But how did you find me?”

“Sheer luck, I suppose,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve been searching for days. And on foot. I didn’t even have time to steal a horse.”

She gestures to herself—the travel-worn gown and the leaves sticking out from her hair. A bolt of panic spikes in my chest. If Verity could find me, who else can?

“Does anyone else know you’ve gone?”

“Of course not,” she says. “Just me. Is that…the stag?”

She catches sight of him near the stable, where he’d been grazing on the goats’ straw again. He spots Verity and snorts, then paws at the ground. Tosses his head back and lets out a low keen. The crow caws overhead, making my skin prickle.

“It’s a long story,” I tell her. “Come on.”

I lead her into the house. Verity flops down at the table as I close the door and slide the bolt back into place. Then I shut all the windows and shutters for good measure.

“Are you all right?” Verity asks.

“Just being safe,” I say. “What about you? What’s happening at the palace?”

“Everyone is talking about you, if that’s what you mean,” she replies. “Some are saying that you were ill again, but I knew that couldn’t be true. Hang on. I have something…”

She rummages through her bag. An apple rolls out. I pick it up before it falls, admiring the bright ruby skin. It shines so much that I can almost see my own reflection inside it. There’s something strange about it, though. Something I can’t quite place.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Kitchens,” she says. “I filched as much as I could fit in the bag. Have it if you like.”

“There’s no need,” I gesture to the hearth. “Tilda left enough food to satisfy an army.”

And with little else to do, I’d been picking at it all day. Still, a sudden, overwhelming wave of hunger overtakes me. I do want the apple. Desperately. My stomach growls and my mouth waters. I take a bite, tart juice bursting over my tongue. It’s delicious, crisp and clean and impossibly sweet. But there’s something else. A sourness buried deep in the flesh.

“This came from the palace kitchens?” I ask.

“That’s right.” Verity nods. “Have another bite. Don’t let it go to waste.”

But the apple is suddenly heavy in my grip, its lingering taste in my mouth like copper. From outside, I hear the long keening of the stag.

Alarm bells clang in my mind. Something isn’t right. I drop the apple and make for the door. But as soon as I take a step, the cottage swims. My knees meet the floor. Panic grips me and I resort to crawling, a single word looping in my brain:Away, away.

“Don’t fight, Princess,” Verity croons. But her voice is suddenly not Verity’s at all. It’s croaking and wrong. “It will all be over soon.”

“Who are—” I start, but my tongue feels too thick to continue.

Black spots burst before my eyes and bleed outward. Verity’s face appears above me, then starts to shift. Her skin wrinkles and withers, black hair turning white and wispy. She smiles, her teeth jagged and broken.

“And now,” she rasps, “the price will finally be paid.”

Chapter Fifty-Two