Page 149 of Sword & Sacrifice

And maybe a little magic.

Emmaline had not formally studied magic. Mages studied for years even before choosing a specialty. It required patience, discipline, and giving up everything else in their life, including their closest family. Becoming a medic was faster, easier, and allowed her to stay by her mother’s side.

Although she wasn’t a mage, she understood the basics. She’d made her own mental shield before she was six years old. If she squinted and focused until her eyes watered, she could see wards. Magic was easier with ingredients and practiced spells to act as a conduit, but all anyone truly needed was intent.

Emmaline sat cross-legged near the cell door and balanced her hands on her knees. She pictured her mental shield, the rose canes twisting around her in a protective shell. They’d already shaken off any signs of Alistair’s attack. They were thin, flexible, bending to her heart’s desire but never breaking. All she had to do was train them into a different shape.

Several months ago, when Silas had stayed with Emmaline and Mama at the cottage, she witnessed the physical backlash of Silas’ shield breaking. Until then, she always thought of shields as purely a mental protection—she never considered how they might interact with the real world.

After his first shield broke, Silas crafted a new one for himself, one that acted offensively as well as defensively. He’d called it ‘lightning in a bottle’, and when the time was right, he unleashed it on Alistair, incapacitating the stronger, more experienced mage.

Unlike Silas, Emmaline wouldn’t need to start from scratch. Her thorns were already sharp.

Her breathing slowed and steadied as she solidified the mental image of her shield. She raised one hand to hover above a thorn. When I touch it, I will feel a prick as it pierces my skin. It will bleed.

She inched her hand forward until it should have touched the thorn … nothing. She took another breath and tried again, narrating the whole process to herself as she moved forward. The thorn indents the skin, the pain is slight, fleeting. If I pull away, it will disappear and be only a memory. If I press forward, the skin will break, and blood will drip onto the floor.

Even though she’d been waiting for the pain, calling it forth, it still surprised her when she finally felt the sharp puncture. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared down in awe at her hand. At the single, ruby red drop of blood.

The sun set, the moon rose, and Emmaline quietly worked in her cell.

The creak of an opening door drew her from her meditation. She didn’t bother standing up to greet the constable as he dragged himself toward her.

“Didn’t mean to forget you in here,” he said as he passed a tray through a slot in the bars.

She eyed the tray, keeping her hands on her knees. “I suppose that means you won’t be releasing me.”

He sighed and slumped into the chair behind his desk. “Have a little patience. The truth is a slippery quarry”—he held up his hands as if he were holding a writhing snake—”one person tells you one story; another tells you something completely different. All the eyewitnesses were either drunk or poisoned, and they each only offer you a sliver of information. It’s my job to piece it all together, and that takes time.”

“And while you search, my mother is in danger, and I’m locked in a cell!” Tears stung her eyes as her frustration rose.

“Right, about your mother … her name is Adelaide, correct?”

“Yes. She’s a healer.”

“The Witch.” His tone was odd, his gaze turned inward.

Emmaline’s brow furrowed as she watched him. “She had nothing to do with Bern’s death or the servant’s poisoning. She’s a victim.”

“Bit of a spitfire, from what I heard—could always hold her own.”

“She’s strong and brave and the best mother in the world,” Emmaline replied, raising her chin in defiance. She wouldn’t let Lord Edgar or anyone else slander Mama.

“How old are you, Miss Orestes?”

The question threw her off. Is this important to his investigation? “I’ll be twenty-one soon.”

Constable Gordon nodded slowly. “I don’t think you’re a direct danger to Lord Edgar, but I can’t release you while the investigation is ongoing, so I’ll remand you to someone else’s custody.”

“What? Who?”

Without further explanation, he pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the room. At the door, he called over his shoulder, “Eat your dinner. I won’t let anyone claim I abused you.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Emmaline alone again.

Pursing her lips, she mulled over his vague statements, then decided it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t stay here long enough to understand who he meant.

Closing her eyes again, she pictured the network of thorns she’d spread all around her cell. The canes twisted around each bar, climbing almost to the top. A clump of brambles surrounded the lock, squeezing into it until they overflowed.