Chapter III.22 #2
Surely, her sisters weren’t left alone all day while the rest of her family did … whatever they were doing. Wedding festivities or wedding scheming. A rich man like her father would have tutors or a governess for his daughters.
Miria had counted on additional company, and she’d come prepared to deal with any such person.
But as she climbed the last flight of stairs toward the girls’ room, the lack of voices was more concerning than a chorus of nursemaids or guards would have been.
Something was wrong. Could Rosmilda have expected her?
And if so, why had she not sprung another trap?
Even if she were too tired from her earlier spellcasting attack to use magic (and Miria did not know whether stealing other people’s power would tire her out), she could have stationed guards and told them she expected trouble.
Miria set her jaw as she headed down the hallway.
It had seemed so unlikely that her father or Rosmilda would have taken the girls to Adaline’s uncle’s for the day, but what if she’d made a mistake?
She’d been hasty; she knew that. Her suspicions had overpowered all of Yali’s cautious teachings.
She’d wanted to get her sisters and not waste time planning.
But as Miria opened the door to the room where she’d last seen the girls, it appeared all she’d done was waste time. No one was there.
This was clearly Winda and Katline’s room.
It was filled with the pretty comforts Miria had not even known to dream about when she was a child.
Two beds, each piled with lovely blankets and soft pillows.
A plush rug between them. A basket with dolls and wooden games. Fine hairbrushes and silky ribbons.
But it was also filled with an air of sadness, as though these signs of wealth and privilege were more like decorations than objects meant to be enjoyed.
The girls in this room were loved and cared for to the extent that they were useful, but no more.
It was no different, really, than what Adaline had spoken of, although their “use” might be very different to their respective families. A gilded prison was still a prison.
Anger surged in Miria once more, and she dug her nails into her palms.
She spun on her heel, discarding her first failed plan for another as quickly as her heart beat. What of the tools Rosmilda was using to cast her stolen spells? She must have supplies somewhere. If Miria could steal those, she could halt Rosmilda’s spells, even if only temporarily.
They would be hidden, obviously. Locked away in a room where no one would stumble upon them. That meant the public rooms on the lower floors were out. A bedchamber perhaps?
Miria opened a couple of other doors until she found a likely room, decorated in florals, the air tinged with the scent of old perfume.
The bed in the center was finely carved and covered in richly dyed blankets and lace.
At the foot of the bed sat a trunk. Thinking at once of her nana’s trunk, Miria rushed over to it and cast a simple spell with a half-copper coin to pick the lock.
Expectantly, she pulled back the lid only to discover nothing but mothballs and heavy winter clothing, polished leather boots lined with wool and soft furs.
Grimacing, Miria shut the trunk after searching through to the bottom.
She should have known her spell had worked too easily.
She stood, taking a closer inspection of the room, and her gaze settled on a small, silver box on the dressing table.
It might be nothing more than a jewelry box, but Miria brushed a finger over it, and her skin tingled faintly like it had with the path stone.
The box itself did not appear to be bespelled, but some of its content were. It, too, was locked, unsurprisingly. Gritting her teeth because she was annoyed at needing to cast again when she was trying to preserve her magic, Miria picked the lock and flipped open the lid.
She’d expected to find charms, perhaps a premade potion.
What the box contained was more disturbing—small scraps of parchment, each labeled with a name or description, each colored with the distinct ruddy brown of dried blood.
Just a splotch, no larger than the half-copper coin in Miira’s hand.
But Miria could sense the power in each magically stolen drop.
This was Romsilda’s stash. This was how she maintained her connection to the children whose power she somehow siphoned from afar.
There were eight of them, and the names meant nothing to Miria, though she noted her sisters’ names did not appear on any. But then, Rosmilda didn’t need to go to such lengths with her own daughters. They lived with her; their blood was easily available whenever Rosmilda needed it.
Miria’s own blood quickened as she debated.
If she took all of these, she would cut Rosmilda off from her victims, or all of them but her own children.
But for how long? And if she did that, Rosmilda would know what she’d done.
Would she rely more heavily on hurting Winda and Katline until she replenished her supply?
With the names and their blood, Miria could find each child and put protective spells on them, but that would take time—days to protect all of them since Miria didn’t dare weaken herself too much.
Nor were these eight likely to be the only children in Swiftdok with magical blood.
They were simply Rosmilda’s current choices.
Miria swore to herself. She wanted to protect her sisters above all else, but she knew she shouldn’t put her own family above these unknown children.
They were a start. This was something. Even if Rosmilda sought other children to replace these particular ones as soon as she realized what Miria had done, Miria would have helped those she could.
And perhaps … Miria stared at one of the names.
If Rosmilda had found a way to draw on a child’s magic from a scrap of stolen blood, perhaps she could find a way to protect a child from afar, too.
Rosmilda clearly knew a thing or two about magic that Miria didn’t, but Miria refused to concede that Rosmilda might be more clever than she was.
Miria didn’t like the possibilities presented, but she liked doing nothing even less, so she placed the bloodied parchment pieces in her satchel and closed the silver box, being sure to put everything back as she’d found it. She cast a last glance around then returned to the hall.
If she found a means to cast a protective spell from afar, she would need something personal from her sisters in lieu of blood. A strand of hair would be ideal.
She slipped back inside the girls’ room and immediately headed toward the brushes and combs on their dressing table. Had their hair been the same color? Miria unthreaded a strand of light brown hair from the brush as the door opened softly behind her.