Chapter Nine
Sybil
Over the years, Sybil learned that Jacinda’s disposition improved when given time alone.
Sybil had not been such a child at Jacinda’s age. No—at sixteen, she had fallen in love and had her life planned out. A familiar
pain flared within her, one old enough that it ought to have calcified by now.
Never would she love a man the way she had John Griffin. Two years her senior, he had given her his heart. They’d pledged
their undying love to one another, vows that made John’s father balk. After all, a landowner’s son could not wed the peasant
daughter of the local healer. In all Sybil’s life, she had never been made to feel so low as the day John’s father looked
at her, lip curled in disgust.
A woman silenced by the world and crushed under the heel of the rich. She had turned away John’s affection, refusing to spend
her life treated with such disdain.
That day, she made a different vow—that never again would she allow someone to treat her as less than. And though she’d intended to improve her station, even she had not expected to rise so high as when Henry proposed.
What’s more, he understood that her heart was not hers to give. He himself had lost a wife who’d died birthing a stillborn
child two decades before and declared he, too, could never love again.
Theirs had been a marriage of respect. Rather than silence her questions, he encouraged them. He offered her education and
knowledge.
She had been scarcely twenty when she first met him in her mother’s hut, when he’d come to learn from the local healer. Back
then, Sybil had been filled with more questions than answers. While he was content to have her mother explain the creation
of tonics and tinctures, Sybil had wanted to know the intricacies of the world.
He had gifted her with responses to all she’d asked.
Now she had even more questions, but had also gained the knowledge to understand that one would never live long enough to
see them all answered.
No, Sybil had not been like Jacinda, who should be an adult, yet sulked like a child.
The hour was past noon, far beyond when Jacinda ought to be awake.
How she could sleep past the sunrise baffled Sybil. As soon as the brilliance of the sun peeked over the trees, the energy
in Sybil’s body forced her awake.
But Jacinda needed to rouse. They had to discuss their argument the prior evening.
Sybil strode across the Great Hall, her shoes whispering over the rushes when a hard object underfoot hissed metallically
beneath her shoe.
Sybil lifted her foot and bent to retrieve the item.
A single band of iron curled and twisted into a fine bracelet.
Even touching the thing made the world around Sybil go uncomfortably quiet.
Was it any wonder Jacinda refused to wear the bracelet?
Mayhap Sybil ought to confess all to Jacinda.
But then the memory of the blood moon surfaced in Sybil’s mind.
Ominous. Threatening.
A warning to heed.
Sybil glanced to the hearth, recalling how the fire mirrored Jacinda’s rage.
No, teaching Jacinda was far too dangerous. She would push past every boundary, eager to explore a power greater than Sybil
had ever known.
With an irritated huff, Sybil climbed the stairs.
The fragrance of rosemary and sage hovered throughout the manor, notes of protection adorning every window and doorway, discreetly
sprinkled by Sybil in the middle of the night. The barrier of those enchantments lent her a sense of peace.
The door to Jacinda’s bedchamber was closed, and dread slowed Sybil’s steps. There would be an argument, of course, the hurling
of painful words, the frustration of Sybil trying to infuse sense into the girl. Before the ordeal even began, Sybil was exhausted.
Walking away would be so easy, so effortless. If she did not love Jacinda so much, she would have. The time had come to have
a conversation with the girl, to finally admit the truth. About everything.
With the weight of what she must do upon her shoulders, Sybil pushed the door to the room open. “Jacinda, I…”
The bed was rumpled, unmade, but devoid of its occupant. Sybil glanced about the room with a frown. “Jacinda?”
No answer followed.
The kestrel’s perch sat empty, a single speckled feather resting beside the base.
Unease coiled low in Sybil’s stomach. “Jacinda?”
There was no answer.
Sybil swept through the house, calling for the wayward teen, until the entire household rushed about with her name on their
lips. Not that their efforts mattered. Sybil already knew the truth.
Jacinda was gone.
Not only was she outside the manor, but she was also not wearing her bracelet.
All that wild energy fueling her gifts could alter the weather, bend nature, and even change the course of the heavens. She
once held night off by an hour, hanging the sun in the sky a full hour beyond its time.
The Witchfinder General was coming. He could be anywhere, and Jacinda was reckless. Careless.
If he caught her. If Jacinda were arrested. If she were convicted of witchcraft…
The frantic staccato of her heart left no room for breath and Sybil fought to keep her panic at bay.
Wherever Jacinda had gone, Sybil must find her.
Which meant leaving the house. Putting herself at risk.
But Sybil would do it.
She would sacrifice all for Jacinda.