Page 12 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

He stooped, pulling my bag toward him by its strap. Tucking a hand inside, he fished around for a moment before tugging the dagger from its wrappings. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered.

He loosed the blade from its sheath, holding it up to the firelight. “How extraordinary. I’m even more certain now that it was fate that we met tonight, Miss …?”

“Erramun,” I finished for him, offering a halfhearted smile.

My eyes traced the fanged serpent scored into the otherwise smooth blade. It trailed from the dagger’s gilded hilt to its lethal point where it coiled around the pointed steel. Ewan had been right; it was a fine blade.

“You said that you have, er, questions, Your Majesty?” I whispered, staring at my distorted reflection in the cold steel.

The corner of his lip curled upwards. “Indeed I do, and I suppose this is as good a time as any to ask them.”

Beside us, the fire spit and crackled violently, the bark curling off of its log before the flames transformed it into sinewy smoke. It set my teeth on edge. “You know,” he said, “until yesterday I had no idea that we had a witch in our midst.”

The heat drained from my face as I met his depthless gaze. “I assure you, Your Majesty, I am no—”

“Please,” he interrupted, waving away my protest. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

I wasn’t so sure.

“It’s rare to encounter a witch these days,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

“You are not comfortable speaking of it,” he observed, grinning as my eyes widened. He was toying with me. “I can tell. Your heart started beating wildly the moment I mentioned it.”

I blanched. “You can hear that?” I asked, recalling Maxence’s earlier caution.

He nodded. “I can. Tell me, why does it make you so nervous?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” I said, unsure if it was something worth apologizing for. “Some people are, er, hostile toward witches.”

He made a noise that sounded vaguely like a growl. “My advisers tell me that there are some in the Outlands who consider witches akin to demons and therefore believe that witchcraft should be punished, despite the fact that witchcraft is not a crime in my kingdom. A preposterous notion born of their own ignorance, of course.”

“I come from the Outlands.” The words escaped me before I could stop them. I winced, expecting reproach.

His expression softened. “I mean no offense.”

I ducked my head.

“May I ask how you found your way into my employment?” came the King’s voice. “The Outlands are terribly far away.”

I took a shaky breath. “I left my village three years ago under, er, strained circumstances. I served in Lord Reardon’s house before finding employment here.”

The beginnings of a periwinkle sunrise seeped through the gap in the heavy curtains, its nascent rays falling across my face. His expression smoothed. “I’m sorry to hear that you left your village under difficult circumstances. Although, I suppose if you hadn’t we would not have met tonight.”

The skin of my cheeks warmed. “I suppose not, Your Majesty.”

“The hour grows late, and I imagine what you need more than anything right now is rest,” he said. “Before I let you go, is there anyone I can send word to on your behalf? Family?”

I winced, the image of blue flames once more dancing behind my eyelids. “No,” I whispered. “I have no family.”

He touched my hand gently. “My apologies for the presumption.”

I nodded, gratefully accepting a handkerchief that he pulled from his cloak as my eyes grew watery. “I’m sorry,” I sniffed. “It’s the shock, I think.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me.”

I sniffed again. “Thank you.” A beat passed between us, his hand still on my own. “I should be getting back,” I said. I had already wasted enough of his time.