A Touch Unexpected

20. An Unexpected Visit

20

An Unexpected Visit

A leatherbound sketchbook sat open in Rosalind’s lap. Valentina had cajoled her into spending the early afternoon drawing in the town square. She looked up from her sketch to survey the scene around them.

Across the way, a woman stood selling colorful wildflowers and berries out of a small cart. When she wasn’t assisting patrons, she was chatting with a man at the next cart, who had an assortment of engraved goblets, teapots, and other metal wares on display. More than a dozen carts were scattered about the square, selling various goods.

In the center stood the massive stone fountain, where a group of giddy children crowded around, taking turns racing handcrafted toy boats in the water—so different from the dried-up and eroded fountain of just a couple of days ago.

Every once in a while, Rosalind recognized one of Tory’s friends from the night before weaving through the crowd with their hands full. Sometimes it was a bag of flour or a sack of potatoes; other times it was firewood. They appeared to be runners for nearby shops, helping with errands and gathering supplies.

Before yesterday, she would have shied away from sitting so out in the open, afraid of encountering distrustful glances. But there were none today; passersby merely smiled and went about their business .

Rosalind turned her attention back to her sketch. Truth be told, it wasn’t very good. It was heavy-handed and disproportionate, among other things. Art had never been her forte; that was Valentina’s area of expertise. She peered over at her friend’s notebook, which confirmed as much.

Not only was Valentina’s sketch impressive, but so was her whole demeanor. Not once today had she mentioned a sore head or queasy stomach. She had even woken up ahead of Rosalind this morning—a rare feat in itself—and she’d managed to straighten out her hair without help. Now, she sat beside Rosalind looking as refreshed as ever.

“I hadn’t realized we’ve switched to drawing profiles,” said Valentina, not looking up from her sketch.

“How is it bottle ache hasn’t taken hold of you?”

Valentina shrugged. “Got lucky, I suppose.”

“Lucky?” Rosalind eyed her incredulously. “Val, you were so cup-shot last night that you fell asleep in the wrong room . I’ve seen you suffer more with less.”

“I admit that was rather silly of me. But it all worked out, did it not? I woke up this morning and there you were. Kind of you to let Jonathan have the other room. Imagine what sort of mischief he might have gotten into if you hadn’t.”

Rosalind bit back the nervous laugh rising in her throat. “Yes, well, I happened to still be awake when he came in and…” She swallowed. “H-he asked nicely.”

Valentina smiled. “I’m sure he did.”

A rush of guilt flooded Rosalind. She couldn’t keep this up. She didn’t want to do it anymore, and frankly, she wasn’t very good at it. It wasn’t just that she owed Valentina the truth; she also desperately wanted her friend’s guidance on what to do next. She needed Valentina to tell her how foolish she’d been and to stop messing about. Surely Valentina would succeed in getting the point across to her—that this was nothing more than a dalliance, a fling. Something fun but fleeting for Jonathan that would surely end in hurt and humiliation on Rosalind’s part. The longer she let herself indulge in whatever this was, the worse off she would be. If she didn’t stop soon, she might risk her friendship with Jonathan in its entirety.

Another wave of guilt struck Rosalind. Again, she had gone from thinking about what was best for Valentina to thinking about herself. This had to end.

“Val,” she started, unable to stop the trembling in her voice, “I need to tell you something.”

“Can it wait?”

Rosalind blinked. “What? No, I think it’s rather important—”

“Sorry,” Valentina interjected, “but I think we might have more pressing matters at the moment.” She nodded in the direction of the tavern.

Jonathan was pacing, hand running through his hair. He seemed to be explaining something rather frantically to Keeper Saintgarden, who stood nearby with a grave look on her face.

“I think we should go find out what’s going on.”

“What’s the matter, Jonathan?” Valentina asked once they neared, not bothering with pleasantries. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing. I can see by the way you’re acting that something is—”

“It’s Padraic,” Jonathan answered before she could finish. “He’s taken ill and needs aid quite urgently. Ilora is on her way with him as we speak.”

“They’re coming here now?” Valentina asked. “Surely it isn’t wise for him to travel when he’s not feeling well.”

Rosalind agreed it was an odd choice for the Masons to journey to Ashwind when there were plenty of esteemed physicians in Meridian. The trip would take some six hours by carriage .

“We suspect he’ll need more than a physician,” Jonathan explained.

Keeper Saintgarden nodded. “Based on what you’ve described, there is little doubt wielding is at play.”

Rosalind and Valentina looked at one another in surprise.

“I will call on Constance to assist us,” the Keeper said. “She is a healer—one of the best in the borderlands. I will also coordinate with Quinn and Leon to prepare a room for their arrival. When do you anticipate that might be?”

Jonathan rubbed anxiously at his forehead. “Sometime shortly after nightfall, I suspect.”

“Is that how you two have been communicating?” the Keeper asked, eyeing his hand.

Jonathan hesitated for a brief moment, then nodded. He held out his hand to the Keeper, who reached out to examine the gold ring on his third finger.

“Thought it seemed a bit plain for someone of your stature.” Peering more closely, she added, “I hadn’t noticed the engravings before. Very intricate. Erdesian-made, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“And your friend, he’s the one who wears its twin?”

“Not Padraic, no. His sister, Ilora, is the one I share it with.”

Rosalind didn’t have a clear view of the ring from where she stood, but she knew which one they spoke of. And now she knew of its purpose, to enable Jonathan and Ilora to communicate with one another. He wore one and Ilora the other. Her throat tightened.

“Let us know if she sends you any further messages of note ahead of their arrival,” the Keeper instructed. “In the meantime, I will ensure preparations are in order. Beyond that, there isn’t much more we can do but wait.” She placed a reassuring hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and left .

The trio settled on a bench in the far corner of the tavern as they waited for nightfall. Rosalind and Valentina sat on either side of Jonathan as he filled them in on what he knew.

According to Ilora, Padraic had been growing increasingly erratic over the past fortnight. It began with sporadic remarks about how his partner, Enzo, had wronged him in one way or another. The remarks seemed at odds with all of the fond things he had to say about them in between. However, the critical remarks soon outweighed the fond ones.

Then came the lapses in memory. Ilora would comment about something Enzo had said or did and Padraic would have no recollection of it. At times, it seemed as if he had forgotten about Enzo entirely.

“Ilora fears for his sanity,” Jonathan explained. “She says it’s as if he has lost control over his own mind. And he’s hardly slept or eaten, which has only made matters worse.”

“I’m so sorry, Jonathan,” Valentina said, sympathizing. “That is truly terrible. I can’t imagine how frightening it is for Padraic and how difficult it must be for Ilora to see him like this. If I may, where is Enzo in all of this?”

“They are on their way, but…” He hesitated. “It isn’t an easy trek for them. If it were, they would already be by Padraic’s side with the help he needs.”

Jonathan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “As it is, they will not arrive for another day or two and I’m not sure we can afford to wait until then.” The heel of his boot began to tap furiously against the stone floor. “I just hope the healer will be able to remedy whatever has been done to him.”

Any encouraging words that came to mind sounded trite in Rosalind’s head. She doubted they would be enough to calm his nerves. Still, she couldn’t bear to sit there and not console him. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it atop his knee. Almost at once, the bouncing of his leg stilled. When he looked at her, she saw he sought relief in her eyes, and so Rosalind held his gaze, gentle and unwavering, until the lines on his face softened. Remembering they were not alone, she drew her hand away, not daring to look in Valentina’s direction.

“I must admit my curiosity is piqued,” Valentina said after a short while. “How exactly does that ring of yours work?”

“With regards to magic, I haven’t a clue,” Jonathan admitted. “But the mechanics are quite simple. When I want to convey a message, I turn the ring clockwise as I speak into it. The other person is then made aware of the message when their band turns cold. And I mean cold enough to notice. Burns a bit if I’m honest.”

“Fascinating. And how do you go about listening to the message?”

“You simply hold it to your ear.” He mimicked the gesture.

“Sounds quite useful. Had it for long?”

“No, not long at all. Ilora gave it to me when she and Padraic last visited Brighthall.”

“So right before all of this began. Huh,” Valentina remarked. “Apt timing, or was something like this anticipated?”

“A bit of both, I’d say. We knew something was bound to happen when the truth came out but didn’t know when or how. And we certainly didn’t expect him to be capable of this…”

Valentina opened her mouth to speak.

“Val,” Jonathan cut in, “I know you have more questions, but it’s not my place to answer them. I’m sorry.”

She huffed a sigh but nodded in understanding.

“Oy, Chancellor,” barked a familiar voice from across the room.

All three turned to where Sylvan stood, arms crossed. “Give me a hand, will you?” He nodded toward the kitchen door. “I could use some help moving things about in the back room. Nothing like a bit of hard labor to take your mind off things, eh? ”

“Couldn’t hurt,” said Jonathan as pushed himself off the bench and made his way over.

“You’ve been quiet, more so than usual,” Valentina remarked as they watched Jonathan follow Sylvan into the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

Aware of Valentina watching her, Rosalind answered hastily.

“Me? Oh, it’s nothing. There simply wasn’t much else to say that hadn’t already been said.”

And wasn’t that the truth? Rosalind could think of nothing to say to console him, so she tried to show him, and any questions that came to mind, Valentina had voiced for the both of them.

“If you say so,” Valentina replied, considering her a moment longer before turning her attention elsewhere in the room.

There was one question that hadn’t been asked. One that had been eating away at Rosalind since discovering Jonathan’s ring was one of a pair.

“Val,” she began as casually as she could muster, “do you think the rings are meant solely for communication? Or might there be more to them than that?”

“More?” Valentina asked, confused. “Ah,” she said moments later as understanding dawned on her. “No, I don’t believe there is. For one, I think he’d have said something. Also, I don’t think she’s the one.”

Rosalind eyed her friend skeptically. “You don’t think the daughter of a neighboring Chancellor is an ideal match for him?”

“Oh, no, I agree she may be an ideal match, but that doesn’t make her the one .”

“What does then?”

Valentina shrugged. “That’s on him to figure out.”

Rosalind expected her to say more, but she didn’t. And as tempting as it was to point out that she hadn’t really answered the question, Rosalind didn’t. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

After long hours had passed, Tory burst into the tavern.

“They’ll be here any minute,” he gasped out.

Following behind him was a tall woman with silver hair trimmed close to her head. She wore a billowing emerald dress that draped to the floor and around her waist sat a gold chain. Dangling from the chain was a chatelaine, which held an assortment of tools—several spoons of varying sizes, a pair of scissors, tweezers, and two miniature flasks. Rosalind ventured to guess she was Constance, the healer Keeper Saintgarden had mentioned earlier.

No sooner had the room settled than the clamor of hooves and carriage wheels against cobblestone sounded outside. They came to an abrupt halt, and moments later, the heavy wooden door swung open.

Padraic didn’t look as he had when Rosalind met him. He wore a linen shirt tucked haphazardly into his trousers with its collar hanging loosely around his neck as if it had been pulled at and stretched. His hair clung to his head and dark rings encircled his eyes. She distinctly remembered the set of his mouth, how it seemed to promise mirth and mischief. None of that was evident now. In its place was a deep and despairing frown.

Holding him upright was Ilora, whose weary eyes scanned the room. A flicker of relief crossed her face when she spotted Jonathan.

“Ilora, where are we?” Padraic asked, his gaze darting frantically about the tavern. “No, no, no,” he muttered, “you’ve brought me to them, haven’t you?” He turned to her, eyes wide. “How could you? I trusted you.” He attempted to tear himself from Ilora’s grasp.

“Padraic,” Jonathan said gently as he slowly approached his friend. “You’re in Denault, in a town called Ashwind. It’s alright. Ilora brought you here at my behest. It’s me, Jonathan. Your friend. ”

Padraic looked at Jonathan blankly for a moment before recognition lit up his eyes. “Jonathan,” he said with a relieved smile. He started toward him, arms open in greeting, but he stilled partway. His smile fell away, and suspicion shadowed his features. “Why am I here? Why did you bring me here?” The suspicion faded and his face hardened. “They got to you too, didn’t they? Where are they?”

Jonathan took a tentative step toward him. “They aren’t here, Padraic. I promise you, Enzo is not here.”

Padraic bared his teeth at the mention of Enzo. Then, his expression changed once again. The anger he wore only moments before dissolved away and his shoulders slumped. “Why aren’t they here?” he asked quietly.

Resting a hand on Padraic’s shoulder, Jonathan explained, “They’re on their way, I can assure you. They want very much to be here with you, and they will be. We just need to give them a little more time. You know how it is.”

Padraic nodded, eyes cast down at the floor in front of him. His head tilted slightly, and he seemed to brush at something on his shirt. He glanced up at Jonathan and blinked. “I apologize, my mind seems to have gone astray. What is it we were discussing?”

“We were speaking of Enzo,” Jonathan said carefully.

“Enzo,” Padraic repeated quietly. “Do I know them?”

A muffled cry escaped Ilora and she turned to Jonathan, her eyes pleading. Jonathan glanced over at Keeper Saintgarden, signaling it was time.

“Lord Mason, Lady Ilora,” she began. “I understand you have come a long way to be here, and as it’s getting late, I would not wish to delay proceedings any further. We have prepared a few things in anticipation of your arrival, so if you would please follow me.”

She proceeded to introduce herself, Constance, and Sylvan as the group made its way beyond the kitchen double doors and through to what appeared to be a storage room. Inside was empty aside from a large metal basin, a small pile of blankets, and a serving cart topped with a tidy collection of unlabeled vials, pouches, and jars.

Quinn, who must have joined them as they passed through the kitchen, slipped in after Rosalind and closed the door behind her. As soon as she did, it became readily apparent the room wasn’t meant to house nine people.

Rosalind pressed in close to Valentina and whispered, “Perhaps it best we offer them some privacy and wait outside.”

“And miss out on this? Certainly not,” Valentina muttered indignantly. “Keep quiet, and they won’t even notice we’re here.” She grabbed Rosalind’s wrist as if to hold her in place.

Constance approached the cart and picked out a few strands of thick straw from a canvas pouch. Wordlessly, she began to weave them into a long plait.

“You can’t be serious.” Padraic’s tone was incredulous as he looked from Constance to Ilora. “A wielder?” He let out a wry laugh. “Is it not a wielder who put me in this situation in the first place? And now you expect me to put my trust in another? For all I know, she’s conspiring with Enzo. Perhaps you all are,” he added bitterly.

Constance did not react to his accusation, continuing to move about the room. She brought a vial to the metal basin and poured some sort of viscous purple liquid into it. Soon, the scent of lavender filled the air.

“You’re familiar with wielding, I take it?” Sylvan inquired.

“Of course I’m familiar,” Padraic snarled. “Hard not to be when Enzo is an Erd—”

“Padraic,” Ilora cut in, her voice calm but strained, “I shouldn’t think they need to be privy to such things.”

“On the contrary,” Sylvan replied. “I think it would do well for us to know who exactly we are dealing with.”

“They are not at fault for this,” she snapped .

“Your brother seems to think otherwise.”

“My brother is not in his right mind,” Ilora shot back. “Catch him in a moment of clarity, and Padraic will assure you that Enzo is not to blame for this.”

Padraic threw his hands in the air. “Who is this Enzo we keep speaking of? And how should I know what they have or haven’t done?”

Ilora squeezed her eyes shut as if teetering on the edge of a coin, one toss away from shouting or crying.

“It wasn’t them,” Jonathan affirmed.

Sylvan considered him. “If not them, then who?”

Jonathan said nothing. He only looked at Ilora, who let out a long breath. “Our father.”

Rosalind’s blood ran cold. The Chancellor of Meridian was a staunch anti-wielder, as vocal and ardent as Lords DuPont and Armory. To think that he illegally commissioned a wielder to enchant his son. To think a father could do such a thing. It was incomprehensible.

Sylvan nodded slowly. “Because this Enzo is a wielder… from Erdesay?”

Ilora didn’t answer.

“Enzo isn’t just any Erdesian wielder,” Padraic threw out. Immediately after, he clamped his mouth shut as if realizing he said more than he should have.

Sylvan rubbed at his chin in quiet contemplation, then went over to Constance and gestured to her. They signed back and forth briefly in wordless conversation. When they’d finished, Constance approached Padraic and held out her hand expectantly.

He stared at her hand, motionless. “Fine,” he said after a time, placing his hand in hers. “Do your worst, healer. It can’t be any more grievous than whatever grips me now.” Then his shoulders slumped and in a fragile whisper, he added, “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

Constance brought her other hand to rest against his temple. It wasn’t long before she turned to Sylvan and nodded.

“She confirms his psyche is indeed enchanted,” Sylvan relayed. “And by her measure, it’s a powerful one.”

Rosalind didn’t miss Ilora’s hand as it sought out Jonathan’s.

“Does she know what it is?” Ilora asked. “Can she fix it?”

“She needs to call it to the surface to identify it. Lord Mason, if you will.” Sylvan gestured toward the metal basin.

Padraic raised a brow. “You expect me to get in that?”

Constance nodded. They stared at one another, unwavering, until Padraic relented.

“Good thing I look like shit. You would never have convinced me otherwise.”

For the first time that evening, Rosalind saw a glimpse of the Padraic she had met back at Brighthall.

Padraic stepped into the shallow basin and took a seat, wrapping his arms around his bent legs. Constance tied the ends of the plaited straw together and set it atop his head. She knelt beside the basin with a small tongue drum in her lap. She tapped at the drum, releasing a singular resonant note into the air. Before it faded into oblivion, she drummed another note. And then another. And another. It was as if the notes chased after each other, the former just barely beyond the grasp of the latter. Soon, threads of steam rose from the water, and beads of sweat formed across Padraic’s forehead.

“What’s happening?” Ilora asked, her voice tentative.

“She’s warming the water, using heat to coax the magic inside him to the surface,” Sylvan explained. “The aromatics help to make the magic more tangible, and the straw is there for it to bind to. From there, she can attempt to distinguish the enchantment from the natural magic that exists within him. They will have distinctive signatures. If she can harmonize with the enchantment, she can decipher which it is.”

Using both hands, Constance tapped the drum in swift movements, drawing out multiple notes together and one after another in a brief melody. She let her hands hover over the drum as the sounds reverberated throughout the room. She did this several times, altering the cadence slightly each time.

After a time, she beckoned Sylvan over and the pair signed to one another for several minutes. Sylvan rubbed a hand over his mouth. A deep crease formed between his brows as his gaze flicked from the Keeper to Jonathan and then to Ilora. Rosalind hadn’t seen him look so apprehensive before.

“It appears Lord Mason has been enchanted not just once but twice.”

Ilora’s hand flew to her chest as she let out a choked cry.

“Does she know which ones?” Jonathan asked.

Sylvan gave a curt nod. “One is bis memoria, or dual memory. In this case, the wielder attempted to offset every positive memory of this Enzo person with a false, adversarial one. The other is occulta memoria. It’s when certain memories are concealed, hence why he experiences varied states of recollection.”

He turned to Padraic. “I’m sorry. Memory modification is among the most challenging forms of wielding. It's said to take decades to master, and even then, the use of magic for such purposes is largely condemnable because of how dangerous it can be. Whoever did this to you knowingly put your life at immense risk, for they were neither adept at crafting the enchantments nor did they have enough magic to wield them effectively.” He paused. “That being said, their inadequacy affords us better odds of disarming them.”

“Will it hurt?” Padraic inquired.

“Disarming shouldn’t hurt, no, but you’ll experience a nasty headache in the coming days. ”

Padraic scoffed. “Can’t imagine it’ll be any worse than the bottle aches we endured back at the capital, eh, Jonathan?”

Jonathan managed a small smile. “Not likely.”

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Padraic said, nodding at Constance.

The healer resumed the quick taps of her fingers and thumbs against the steel drum in her lap. A melody that charmed and unnerved Rosalind filled the room, the notes rising and falling as if traversing a jagged mountainside.

Constance’s head lolled forward, though she did not cease her drumming. Sylvan was soon at her side, resting a hand on her bare forearm. His presence seemed to reinvigorate her, and she called forth the melody yet again. Rosalind felt herself growing overwhelmed by the sound that echoed around them and the faint reverberations that rippled across her skin when, suddenly, it stopped. For the briefest of moments, she thought she caught a glimpse of gold shimmer swirling above Padraic’s head before it dispersed like dust in the wind.

Sylvan and Constance conferred with one another, solemn expressions on both of their faces. The healer shook her head, and it was difficult not to assume the worst. Moments later, she drew her head back, seemingly taken aback by something Sylvan had conveyed to her. Rosalind didn’t miss the cursory look in her direction.

Pushing himself off the ground, Sylvan made his way over to Ilora and Jonathan. There was a sluggishness about his movements that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Constance was able to disarm the enchantment that made him forget memories,” he said.

A look of relief washed over Ilora’s face. “That’s terrific news. And what of the other? Is that next?”

Sylvan hesitated. “Dispelling occulta memoria is not wholly unlike lifting a cloth from over one's eyes. Because it’s only meant to conceal memories, not remove them, the magic does not dwell deep within the psyche. Rather, it rests atop. Bis memoria is a more invasive enchantment, making it more difficult to disarm. It requires extricating false memories from real ones. Only after can the enchantment’s magic attempt to be dispelled.”

“What are you getting at?”

“As it stands, neither Constance nor I possess enough magic to first separate, then remove the second enchantment.”

Tears welled in Ilora’s eyes, and she threw herself into Jonathan’s arms. She nestled her face into his chest, muffling the sob that escaped her. Jonathan wrapped his arm around her and held her.

A burning sensation gathered at the corners of Rosalind’s eyes. She was sympathetic to Ilora’s sorrow and hoped Padraic could soon be free of the treachery his mind endured. But something else toyed with her emotions. She felt it gnaw at her belly as she watched Jonathan’s hand brush soothing touches across Ilora’s shoulder. It was utterly shameful to feel such a way, here of all places.

Jonathan spoke. “Is there nothing we can do?” He considered a moment, then asked, “What of the forest? You mentioned wielders would seek it out for its magic in the days before the New Laws. Could you not acquire more there?”

“We could,” Sylvan admitted, “but it’s unwise to find oneself near the forest after nightfall. There are many who call it home and like magic itself…” He wavered briefly. “They tend to be more restless when nature sleeps.”

“So our only option is to wait until daybreak?” Jonathan pressed.

Sylvan hesitated. “Not necessarily…”

The hairs on the back of Rosalind’s neck rose as his attention fell to her.

“Do you recall what we discussed yesterday?” Sylvan asked.

Tentatively, she met his gaze. “I do. ”

“Well, wouldn’t you know it,” Sylvan said dryly, “an abundance of untapped magic would come in handy right about now.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Jonathan started, but Valentina interjected before he could go on.

“But you said she couldn’t wield the magic.”

“I did,” Sylvan affirmed. “And that still holds true. She is not a wielder. But just because she can’t use the magic doesn’t mean that nobody can.”

Valentina eyed him skeptically. “How?”

“By siphoning the magic from her and redirecting it into whatever the wielder intends. In this case, I would draw the magic from Miss Carver and channel it into Constance so she can focus on disarming the enchantment.”

Sylvan appealed to Rosalind directly. “It wouldn’t require much on your end. A few minutes of your time now and a good long nap afterward is about all.”

She looked over at Padraic, who sat slumped in the shallow basin, thoroughly disheveled and distraught. He was suffering, and it didn’t look like he could take much more. Constance, too, appeared wearier than she had earlier.

“Will it hurt?” she asked in much the same way Padraic had, her voice even but not entirely free of trepidation.

“It shouldn’t, but it will feel strange,” Sylvan admitted. “The magic will be in a more excitable state as it’s being siphoned. You’ll feel it coursing through you as I draw it out, which I’ll do by taking your hand. I suspect you’ll lose consciousness not long after we begin, especially as it’s your first time, but that should be the worst of it, and you’ll be back on your feet after some rest.”

That didn’t seem all that bad in the grand scheme of things. She could endure a bit of discomfort for Padraic’s sake. In the little time they had known one another, he’d been nothing but cordial and courteous toward her. And he was one of Jonathan’s closest friends. Besides, she couldn’t very well stand by and watch him wait in agony when there was something she could do about it.

Rosalind opened her mouth to speak, but Jonathan beat her to it.

“You said that should be the worst of it, not will be. Tell me, Mr. Raynor, what precisely is the worst that could happen?”

Sylvan pursed his lips. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Chancellor?” His next words were slow to leave his mouth as if he were choosing his words carefully. “Like most everything, there are risks to siphoning. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility to siphon too much magic from a person. In such a scenario, the result could prove fatal.”

A deep chill ran through Rosalind.

“But I didn’t think it necessary to bring up now because that's not a concern of ours here,” he continued. “Miss Carver possesses far greater magic than one disarming enchantment requires. I would need to wield something of incredible magnitude to use it all at once, a feat well beyond my ability. Seeing as we don’t know each other all that well, I can’t blame you for not taking my word for it. So here, how about I offer extra assurance to allay your fears.” He reached down the side of his leg and brandished a silver-hilted dagger. Then he beckoned Valentina over, grasped it by the blade, and held it out to her.

“And what do you expect me to do with this?” she asked incredulously.

“I give you permission to jab me with it if I don’t release Miss Carver,” replied Sylvan in a far too casual tone for the topic.

Valentina’s face seemed to light up at the prospect, but just as she was about to grab hold of the hilt, Sylvan pulled it out of reach.

“Now, as tempting as it might be, princess, this is meant to be a last resort. To stop me from siphoning the magic, you need only to sever the connection. In this case, that’ll be to separate our hands. I kindly ask that you refrain from stabbing me unless absolutely necessary.”

With mild reluctance, Sylvan proceeded to hand over the dagger. Then he turned to face Rosalind.

“It’s up to you, Miss Carver. You’re not obliged to help. We can wait until dawn to harness magic from the forest.”

To say she had no reservations would be a lie. But as disquieting as Sylvan’s admission had been, it hadn’t changed her mind.

“I’ll do it,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

“I thought as much. Follow me,” Sylvan instructed, not wasting any time. “You too, princess,” he added, gesturing at Valentina to join them. “You'll want to stay close—not only in case you need to stop me from siphoning too much but also to catch Miss Carver when she faints.”

Rosalind had just fallen in step behind Sylvan when Jonathan reached for her arm. She glanced down at his hand, then up at his face, where she met his intent stare.

“Ros, are you certain?”

Consternation shadowed the features of his face, and she was sorely tempted to reach out and smooth the furrow between his brows. But because that wouldn’t do, not here, not now, she offered him a small smile instead.

“I am,” she said softly.

He searched her eyes a moment longer before dropping his hand and returning her smile with a faint one of his own.

Sylvan knelt down next to Constance and asked Rosalind to do the same beside him. She did as she was told and felt Valentina settle behind her. It was comforting knowing her friend was close by.

“Are you ready?” Sylvan asked, holding his hand out in front of her.

“As I’ll ever be,” she answered, sliding her hand in his .

Rosalind braced herself as the first few notes sounded from Constance’s drum, expecting to feel something right away. But they came and went, and she perceived nothing. No magic, no lightheadedness. She wiggled her fingers to confirm her hand was still clasped in Sylvan’s. Perhaps the effects wouldn’t be as drastic as he made them out to be. Wouldn’t that be nice? Or what if he were mistaken and she didn’t have the magic to siphon in the first place? Perhaps this whole wandering well business was a big misunderstanding.

And then she felt it. It was subtle in the beginning, nothing more than a tingling sensation in her hand. But before long, the tingling had worked its way up her arm and cascaded through the rest of her body. Suddenly, every inch of her was vibrating with unrestrained anticipation. Heat began to radiate from deep within her bones, and just when it verged on being too hot to bear, a rush of coolness washed over her—as if she had plunged headfirst into the waters of the far north in early spring. The relief was immediate but fleeting. Soon, she got the sense she was sinking. Black colored the edges of her vision, and the sound of Constance’s melody grew more and more distant. She had a vague feeling she had lost something, but she couldn’t say what. Then, darkness swallowed her whole.