Page 56 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

He smirked. “You know I could just take a look myself.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Then tell me. I command you.”

I snorted. “You command me?”

“That’s right. As your prince.”

“You don’t—” I stammered. “You can’t.” He could, technically, and he knew it.

“Or better yet, I’ll make Mordric command you.”

I swallowed. I didn’t love the options that were being laid out before me, and I wanted Mordric to know about the truth even less than I did Enhart. “Fine,” I conceded. “The last time I summoned fire, more than a simple flame in the palm of my hand, it got out of control.”

“You killed someone.”

I sucked in a breath. “How did you—”

He shrugged. “You forget that I’ve lived through some horrors myself, witch, not that you’ve ever asked. There’s very little that can surprise me. Who was it?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know their names.”

“Names?” he parroted.

I ducked my chin, finding his gaze too penetrating. “There were five of them. Five strangers. They stormed the village, threatened us. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I … I unleashed some kind of horror onto them.”

“How vague. What did it look like?”

I shot him a wry look. “Blue.”

“Blue? That doesn’t sound like ordinary fire.”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t, I don’t think.”

“Show me,” he said. His fingers wrapped around mine and I jerked away, surprised, but his hold was firm.

“I don’t think—”

Show me, his voice echoed in my head, cutting me off. I stared at him blankly. I didn’t want him to see me on that cold afternoon in Wealdstone. Not like that.

You can trust me.

Vesper’s words echoed in my head. She had trusted him. Mordric did, too, simply by allowing Enhart to train me. I exhaled slowly, my eyes already stinging. “Okay,” I whispered.

I threaded my fingers through his, clearing a path to my memories. His imprint was cold against my mind, eager to see what I was hiding. Against every instinct, I lowered my wards, and let him in.

The chill seeped through the soles of my boots as I walked the length of Wealdstone’s high street. A gift from my parents the day I turned fifteen, the leather was flimsy and frayed after years of daily wear. I clutched a pile of freshly laundered linens to my chest, the faint scent of the lavender soap my grandmother made by hand wafting up to my nose. My fingers twitched, the skin cracked and pink from spending all day scrubbing other people’s clothes in the creek.

It was early spring, but Felmas had so far refused to release his grip on the hamlet. The townsfolk, most of whom I had known my entire life, bustled past us swaddled in thick wool, their hands stuffed into moth-eaten mittens to protect them against the chill.

My grandmother walked beside me, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder. Gran liked to remind me that she had once been tall, like me, and had merely shrunk with age. Across the muddy road, Silas Proctor tutted to himself as he examined the hoarfrost on the tip of his boot. I imagined that he would soon claim that the cold was an omen from the gods. A warning about young folks who rejected life on their ancestral farms and sought their fortunes in Bard.

I’d heard it many times before.

I grimaced as his displeasure washed over me like a foul stench. I bent at the waist, stooping low enough to whisper in Gran’s ear. “Silas is feeling mighty rotten today,” I said.

She chuckled. “I suppose we can expect to be shaken down for offerings sometime soon. Perhaps to Althan, to ensure a boon of healthy babes?”