Chapter Three
The jail in Sparrow Hill was a squat, one story building that housed the constable’s office and two cells. The scent of dirt and old wood filled the air, and dust had settled on the bench. Constable Gordon stuck Emmaline into a cell, unlocked her manacles, and left her alone.
She paced her cell, trying to think of a way to convince him to release her. Maybe his investigation will reveal the full truth. He’ll understand we’re all victims of Niall’s plotting, and he’ll help me discover what happened to Mama.
As the hours dragged on, she had less faith in the truth being unveiled. Lord Edgar was quick to accuse us. Could Alistair alter his memories to frame us? Then a dark thought extinguished her hopes: what if he found a way past Mama’s mental shields?
No, her mother’s mental shields were a solid stone wall. It would surely take Alistair longer than a day to break her.
How much longer?
Emmaline couldn’t simply sit in her cell and hope for justice. She grabbed the bars and tugged, hoping that the disuse and neglect extended as far as allowing the bars to rust. They didn’t budge at all. Maybe if I was as strong as Griselda …
Griselda wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. She would have fought against the constable instead of allowing him to arrest her. Or even before that, she would have smelled the magic around Niall or alerted them to whatever sleeping spell he’d used to capture them.
Emmaline’s arms dropped to her side, aching from her useless efforts. I can wish for Griselda’s skills all I want but it won’t change anything.
What skills did she have that could help her escape? More importantly, what tools did she have?
Constable Gordon had set both Emmaline’s and her mother’s bags on his desk, in plain view, but out of reach.
Even if she could reach them, most of the items in her bag were simple medical supplies and tonics.
Her mother may have stronger spells and potions, but Mama was still a healer first and foremost. She likely wouldn’t have anything that could melt the bars or pick a lock.
There must be something I can use!
Emmaline looked frantically around the jail for anything in reach. Searching under the bench, out the barred window, in every corner. Empty except for dirt and dust. The only tool she had was herself …
And maybe a little magic.
Emmaline had not formally studied magic. Mages studied for years even before choosing a specialty. It required patience, discipline, and giving up everything else in their life, including their closest family. Becoming a medic was faster, easier, and allowed her to stay by her mother’s side.
Although she wasn’t a mage, she understood the basics.
She’d made her own mental shield before she was six years old.
If she squinted and focused until her eyes watered, she could see wards.
Magic was easier with ingredients and practiced spells to act as a conduit, but all anyone truly needed was intent.
Emmaline sat cross-legged near the cell door and balanced her hands on her knees.
She pictured her mental shield, the rose canes twisting around her in a protective shell.
They’d already shaken off any signs of Alistair’s attack.
They were thin, flexible, bending to her heart’s desire but never breaking.
All she had to do was train them into a different shape.
Several months ago, when Silas had stayed with Emmaline and Mama at the cottage, she witnessed the physical backlash of Silas’ shield breaking. Until then, she always thought of shields as purely a mental protection—she never considered how they might interact with the real world.
After his first shield broke, Silas crafted a new one for himself, one that acted offensively as well as defensively. He’d called it ‘lightning in a bottle’, and when the time was right, he unleashed it on Alistair, incapacitating the stronger, more experienced mage.
Unlike Silas, Emmaline wouldn’t need to start from scratch. Her thorns were already sharp.
Her breathing slowed and steadied as she solidified the mental image of her shield. She raised one hand to hover above a thorn. When I touch it, I will feel a prick as it pierces my skin. It will bleed.
She inched her hand forward until it should have touched the thorn …
nothing. She took another breath and tried again, narrating the whole process to herself as she moved forward.
The thorn indents the skin, the pain is slight, fleeting.
If I pull away, it will disappear and be only a memory.
If I press forward, the skin will break, and blood will drip onto the floor.
Even though she’d been waiting for the pain, calling it forth, it still surprised her when she finally felt the sharp puncture. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared down in awe at her hand. At the single, ruby red drop of blood.
The sun set, the moon rose, and Emmaline quietly worked in her cell.
The creak of an opening door drew her from her meditation. She didn’t bother standing up to greet the constable as he dragged himself toward her.
“Didn’t mean to forget you in here,” he said as he passed a tray through a slot in the bars.
She eyed the tray, keeping her hands on her knees. “I suppose that means you won’t be releasing me.”
He sighed and slumped into the chair behind his desk.
“Have a little patience. The truth is a slippery quarry”—he held up his hands as if he were holding a writhing snake—”one person tells you one story; another tells you something completely different.
All the eyewitnesses were either drunk or poisoned, and they each only offer you a sliver of information.
It’s my job to piece it all together, and that takes time. ”
“And while you search, my mother is in danger, and I’m locked in a cell!” Tears stung her eyes as her frustration rose.
“Right, about your mother … her name is Adelaide, correct?”
“Yes. She’s a healer.”
“The Witch.” His tone was odd, his gaze turned inward.
Emmaline’s brow furrowed as she watched him. “She had nothing to do with Bern’s death or the servant’s poisoning. She’s a victim.”
“Bit of a spitfire, from what I heard—could always hold her own.”
“She’s strong and brave and the best mother in the world,” Emmaline replied, raising her chin in defiance. She wouldn’t let Lord Edgar or anyone else slander Mama.
“How old are you, Miss Orestes?”
The question threw her off. Is this important to his investigation? “I’ll be twenty-one soon.”
Constable Gordon nodded slowly. “I don’t think you’re a direct danger to Lord Edgar, but I can’t release you while the investigation is ongoing, so I’ll remand you to someone else’s custody.”
“What? Who?”
Without further explanation, he pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the room. At the door, he called over his shoulder, “Eat your dinner. I won’t let anyone claim I abused you.”
The door closed behind him, leaving Emmaline alone again.
Pursing her lips, she mulled over his vague statements, then decided it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t stay here long enough to understand who he meant.
Closing her eyes again, she pictured the network of thorns she’d spread all around her cell. The canes twisted around each bar, climbing almost to the top. A clump of brambles surrounded the lock, squeezing into it until they overflowed.
Taking a deep breath, she exhaled, pouring energy into her shield. The roses pulsed with power to the same rhythm as her heartbeat.
Break the lock, she ordered.
Her shield strained, struggling to follow her command.
She poured more energy into it, more of herself. Her next inhale felt thinner than the last, as if she wasn’t getting enough air.
Break the lock.
The brambles in the lock throbbed as they swelled against the metal.
Emmaline’s head throbbed in turn. Her arms felt numb at her sides.
Break. The. LOCK!
The lock snapped. The sudden release of pressure made Emmaline lightheaded. She collapsed onto her back, staring at the stone ceiling as she struggled to catch her breath. Once her breathing steadied, she pushed herself up onto her elbows.
The cell door stood open an inch.
Grinning, she jumped to her feet and grabbed both her bag and her mother’s from the constable’s desk. Before she left, she doubled back for her forgotten dinner, gulping down a few mouthfuls of chilled soup and stuffing the bread roll in her mouth.
There were no guards around the jail. With the moon high in the sky, everyone—including the constable—had turned in for the night. She crept back to the inn and almost cried in relief when she saw Sugar back in the stall.
Emmaline did cry when she realized she would have to leave Spice. Dragging a second horse behind her would slow her down. Hopefully, the innkeeper would take good care of her.
With Sugar saddled and tears drying on her cheeks, Emmaline made her escape.
Her hope rose with the sun as she headed straight for Litus.