Chapter 48
She didn’t know if Zhaire or Rook had cast a spell on Noel, but he didn’t question her as she fled the tavern, near tears, muttering incoherently that they had to return at once to Holyvere.
In fact, it seemed the only explanation for it because he’d taken one look at her distressed face and helped her onto the horse, galloping the entire way back.
Surely a spell was all that would account for him putting her needs before his desire to remain free from Holyvere Academy as long as possible.
Audra felt as though her airway was constricted; she struggled to breathe the entire bumpy horse ride up the cobblestoned road, past the field, through the woods.
But eventually, the twisted, vine-strangled gate of Holyvere came into view.
The sound of the horses’ hooves on the wet path sounded in her ears like drumbeats, but the gates opened wide, beckoning them back in, and then they were through them, back on Holyvere grounds, where the demons wouldn’t follow—at least not openly.
Noel had barely pulled on the reins to slow the majestic horse before Audra had thrown herself from the beast. She ignored Noel’s shouts of surprise and hurried to the Arcane Guild’s dorm, where she raced up the stairs, down the dormitory corridor, and slammed and locked the door to her room.
Audra could hardly breathe, let alone hold a conversation, so, in response to Wilder’s sleepy inquiry about how her prize had gone, she’d complained of a headache.
Wilder, assuming Audra’s frantic and pained expression was from Cersha’s death, gave her an understanding nod and turned over. She was fast asleep in seconds.
Audra, checking that Wilder was truly asleep, lifted open the chest at the end of her bed and withdrew the potion Cersha had made for her.
She cradled the bottle in her palms, admiring the beautifully crafted, hand-drawn label Cersha had designed—sweet Cersha, who would never brew her another potion.
She was down to two, maybe three doses, but she couldn’t risk him appearing in her dreams tonight; she couldn’t risk it because for a moment she’d considered going; for a moment, she’d truly almost consented, despite that it would mean the death of millions.
So, she ripped the cork from the vial, pressed the cool lip to her mouth, and tipped the bottle back. The scent of the honey-sweet elixir filled her nostrils, but she halted, her lips pursed.
How could she drink the rest of this elixir? It was as though once it was gone, so would Cersha be.
She took the tiniest swallow, determined to be free of Zhaire tonight, but not willing to drink the rest of it.
She recorked the elixir and carefully, tenderly, wrapped it back in its velvet bag and returned it to the chest.