Page 70 of Reign

“No,” I replied, selfishly wishing that at least one of them were.

“What about your sister, Niamh?” Bash pressed, and at the sound of my own name, I flinched.

“No,” I said swiftly, hoping to stop any further questions about a sibling who didn’t exist.

I sighed deeply, imagining how much easier my childhood might have been if I’d been able to share my secret with even one other person. Just the thought lifted a weight from my shoulders.

“Cousin,” Fletcher called, interrupting my thoughts, as he dropped the arrows onto the sands. “How can I help?”

For a second, I froze, wanting to confess my magic, yet unable to forget Mother’s warnings.

Sharing secrets was deadly.

I glanced to Bash, who gave me a reassuring nod—melting both my heart and my anxieties.

I leaned into Fletcher’s ear and whispered, “I’m a wizard,” before stepping back.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, clicking his fingers. “That’s why you two are so close.”

Bash nodded. “Smith’s been tasked with creating an army of wizards—a band of magical men to help us win this war. Do you suspect any of the men at Cambas might be wizards?”

“Nope,” Fletcher replied, tugging at a golden chain around his neck. “But I think a few believe I am.”

“Be careful,” I warned. “Some of the men in the smithy were talking about trialing suspected wizards in water—and your name came up.”

Fletcher scoffed. “I’m a seaman. I can swim.” He mimicked doing a breaststroke and then a paddle, as if buoyancy alone could save him from these men thirsting for magical blood.

“What if they bind your arms and legs?” I asked.

“I can fight,” Fletcher said, demonstrating his punches. He bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, jabbing the air with his fists, ducking and dodging imaginary blows from a pretend opponent. “Back home in the Headlands, I settled disputes with bare-knuckle fights. I’ve a talent for headbutting and eye gouging,” he added, his gold pendant swinging with his movements.

“I’ve seen him blind a man,” Bash said, shuddering at the memory.

Fletcher paused and chuckled—a glint of fond recollection in his eyes—then he sighed contentedly before resuming his shadowboxing. The golden pendant swung into the sunlight once more, capturing my curiosity like a magpie drawn to something shiny.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, worried Fletcher had pilfered Fitzroy’s royal jewels.

He stopped punching the air and held the necklace out proudly. “Nicked it off that pretty whore’s neck,” he said as he opened the pendant. “It had a lock of red hair inside, but I threw that into the sea.” He then closed it, biting the locket in between his teeth. “I think it’s real gold,” he added, letting it bounce back against his chest.

Something in the locket piqued my attention. I reached for Fletcher’s neck and ran my fingers along the chain till I caught the locket. With a flick of my thumb, I opened it. Carved into the gold was a six-petaled flower—similar to the daisy wheel I’d seen chiseled into sandstone after fleeing Green Vale.

“You definitely stole this from one of the women working in the brothel?” I asked, peeling my gaze away from the etching to look at Fletcher.

“Yep.”

My heart raced. “Red wasn’t lying,” I whispered to myself, recalling his claim that Margaret had spoken in Yfelle.

I turned to Bash. “I know where I can recruit Fitzroy’s soldiers.”

“Where?” he asked, staring at me intently.

“The brothel,” I replied. “I’m not certain, but I think the women working there are witches. This symbol—I’ve seen it before, etched into an aged piece of sandstone with Yfelle engraved around it.”

“What did the Yfelle say?” Bash probed.

“Follwen’he Seolfor Wicce.” Follow the Silver Witch, I recited.

“Follow the Silver Witch,” Bash translated for Fletcher. “Doesn’t that suggest that they’re followers of Regina?”