Page 59 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“I saw,” he replied. “Now tell me. Have you summoned it since? The Ealdorfyre?”

“No,” I said flatly. “And I never will again.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I should write to Ivor. It could be your gift.”

“My what?”

“It’s like a special talent.”

“Then I’d like a different talent.”

“That’s not how it works.”

I wrapped my arms tightly across my chest. “Do you really have nothing more to say after what I showed you?”

He shot me a wry look. “I’m not trying to deny you your tortured past, but you have to understand how remarkable this is.”

“It doesn’t feel remarkable,” I shot back. “It feels alive. Like a parasite I can’t shake.”

A beat passed between us. His gaze was searching.

“Listen,” he said, his tone soft. “I’ve done some things that haunt me, too, but you’re not a villain. In fact, it looks to me like you saved the people of your village.”

I laughed dryly. “Well, they didn’t exactly thank me for it.”

“They forced you out?”

I shook my head. “They tried to burn me on a pyre, actually. I used my magic to create a diversion and escape.”

“Then they left you no choice.”

Tears stung my eyes. “I left my gran behind.”

He hesitated. “When she fell—”

“It was instant,” I finished for him.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he said. “Prejudices of old run deep, especially in the Outlands.”

I swallowed, uncomfortable in the brief silence that passed between us. “I think I’d prefer it if you weren’t this nice to me.”

“Well in that case, I suppose I should tell you to stop whining about it. Grow up. You’ve got a king to advise for fuck’s sake. Et cetera.”

“Much better.”

He exhaled slowly. “I can’t promise that this is the last we’ll ever speak about this. Mordric will want to know, and I’m duty-bound to tell him.”

I took a shaky breath. “I understand.”

“Also, I will have you know that the Ealdorfyre and actual fire are entirely different things. From what I’ve read, it’s more like a living creature. I’m sure that you can feel the difference.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I knew what he meant, although I didn’t care to admit it. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, it’s a statement of fact, and it means that you are no longer permitted to use this as an excuse not to work with fire. Are we agreed?”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I muttered, unwilling to admit that he was right. “We are agreed.”

The castle’s warmth washed over me as Enhart and I ducked inside some days later. The place was abuzz with excitement as servants prepared for the Feast of Iltsar, a celebration of the goddess responsible for ushering in the spring season. The air was thick with the scent of spiced meats, and paper lanterns hung from the walls in elaborate arrangements, bathing the corridors in their glow.