Chapter 16
With Gruffud fast asleep beside me, I roll out of bed and quickly don my clothes again.
This time, I take a pair of his trousers, rolling them several times at the waist and stuffing the excess of the legs into my boots.
His tunic is next—I have to roll the cuffs and belt it around my waist. I’m certain I look ridiculous, but with the Pendry family strictly against women wearing trousers, it’s the best I can do.
Gruffud is still snoring when I slip my pocket watch into the pocket of the trousers and sling my satchel across my body. The hinges of the door creak obnoxiously, making my heart thud, but Gruffud only rolls over with a grunt and continues sleeping.
Tiptoeing down the corridor leaves my chest tight, but I manage to slip out of the house undetected.
There’s still a chill in the air reminiscent of spring despite the shift into summertime.
I clutch the strap of my satchel as I walk as quickly as I can.
Everything aches already—I truly hope I can get more refills from Radika tonight.
At this point, I’ve grown accustomed to aches and pains, but they feel more pestering than usual.
One woman crosses my path, a hat affixed with flowers adding an entire extra arm’s length to her height. A few other overextravagant nobles stroll by, but for the most part, there aren’t many about.
Neris is already waiting outside when I arrive at our childhood home. She greets me with a tight hug then asks, “All good, friend? You’re not still cross with me, right?”
“No, Neris. How could I stay cross with you?”
She smiles. “You’re right. How could you? I’m phenomenal.”
Neris is probably one of the humblest people I know, so her statement is even funnier than it perhaps should be.
We manage to arrive unscathed at Radika’s little makeshift workshop within an abandoned home on the outskirts of the city.
As I enter, the stout older woman is walking with purpose around the dank space surrounded by flickering flames from innumerable candles and dilapidated shelves lined with jars, dried herbs, scrolls, and other magical contraband.
The potion maker peers up at me with weary eyes, her bronze face drawn. “Gwyneth, I wondered where you were,” she says. She makes her way over to a small trunk and withdraws a couple of small canvas pouches.
“It’s becoming harder to get away,” I admit.
She smiles, deep lines furrowing the sides of her eyes and mouth. “But here you are.” There’s a subtle pride in her tone as she steps toward me.
I take the two small pouches she offers me, the vials inside clanging against each other. There are even fewer vials than usual in each. I gnaw on my lower lip, my chest tight. After a moment, I meet Radika’s assessing gaze again. “You don’t have more?”
“That’s all I can muster this time, I’m sorry. Hopefully, I will have more for you in two weeks’ time.”
Fortunately, there’s an entire month’s supply for Neris—her tonic is easier to concoct since it doesn’t require magic. Mine, however … I thank her again regardless as I head for the door.
“I’m sorry, Winnie,” Neris whispers as we step outside.
“It is what it is,” I respond.
We start the trek back, speaking in hushed tones as we walk. Neris is in the middle of telling me about some scandal with one of the servants when several figures step onto the pathway ahead. Neris must spot them at the same time as I do, because she halts and grasps my arm. Peacekeepers.
Shite.
I glance down at my clothing. “Bugger,” I mumble as the figures close in on us.
The click of a bolt in a crossbow jolts my heart.
The metal bracelets weigh on my wrist, a reminder that I at least have some weapon of defense if necessary.
I fight against my terraforging that begs to unleash rocks on the men.
Suddenly, Neris slings an arm around me and goes limp as a rag doll. For a quick moment, she throws off my balance. “Tell them you’re taking me to a healer. And try not to let your highborn’s accent give us away,” she whispers.
I nearly scoff at her statement. The four men are mere paces from us as Neris coughs meekly.
“You two! Who are you, and what are you doing out at this hour?” A crossbow is leveled at us. I close my eyes, pushing away the panic that threatens to draw my powers from me. Stay calm, Winnie. Stay calm.
“Good evening, sir,” I force out, aiming for a Grounder accent like Sage’s. “We’re servants for the Baelfire house. I’m just trying to get my friend to a healer.” I don’t think there’s any such house, but I hope they’re gullible enough to believe there is.
“What’s wrong with her?” The man jerks his head toward Neris, who has taken to wheezing.
“It may be the grippe or the plague, sir.”
The Peacekeeper steps back and lowers his crossbow. Neris coughs as though she intends to expel her lungs then gags far too believably. Even I fear that she’ll vomit all over me, and I know she’s faking it.
The men step out of our way.
“Thank you, sir,” I say. We continue on as I half carry, half drag Neris. Luckily, she isn’t very heavy, but I wish she’d help a little.
“Let’s get off the path,” I suggest when we’re far enough away from the men. We leave the cobblestones and get onto a grassy part between houses. I release Neris so suddenly that she almost falls to the ground. I steady her with a hand on her elbow.
“Well done,” she says, beaming.
I roll my shoulders as I will my heart rate to slow down. Around us, the bushes are balding, the flowers drooping. By now, everything should be thriving, but the blight is only getting worse.
What I wouldn’t give to get away from Barr na Cahar.
Away from the Peacekeepers and the nobility.
From the foolish rules that keep everyone imprisoned in fortified lies and deceit.
To take down the Purists who mislead people desperate to fit in or those afraid of the powers they possess.
I would love to meet other Wielders. Radika is the only Mage I’ve ever met.
She’s told me plenty of stories about places where Magekind live in harmony with Ordinaries.
Where everyone is treated as human beings.
If only those who hold the power to enact change could see that.
People like Neris and I could be banished to the Wastelands—it’s supposed to be this foreboding place, but what if it’s just the solace we need?
Back in bed for the night, Gruffud snoring softly beside me, I stare up at the ceiling. I replay the events of the day, of the past month, of so many moments I wish to change. I drift off and dream of that tree I saw in the hallucination a week ago.
Two women stand on either side of the tree. The taller woman has fair skin and the other woman is shorter, with curly hair. The taller woman is reminiscent of the sun; the curly-haired woman, the moon.
Light and shadow.
It shouldn’t make any sense, and yet it somehow does.
As I step toward the tree, the curly-haired woman looks my way.
In a cloud of translucent shadows, she disappears, only to reappear one pace away from me.
I shriek and stumble back, but there’s no malice on her face.
Her brown eyes are kind, her demeanor serene.
If anything, she looks perplexed. “Who are you?” she asks.
Her voice is like a lullaby, like lavender gently wavering in the warm breeze.
This must be a dream.
“It is,” she says as though she’s read my mind. “Who are you?”
“Winnie.” Suddenly, I feel a tug on my body, and everything starts to crumble away.
“Wait!” the woman calls, but her voice is distant.
My stomach bottoms out as though I’m falling from a height and I can’t help but scream.
“Gwyneth, what in the hells!” Gruffud exclaims.
I jump out of bed, searching around me as I suck in shallow bursts of air. There’s no tree. No women. No shadows. It was a dream. I scrub my hands down my sweaty face and turn to Gruffud, who looks at me as though I’ve lost it.
“Apologies,” I pant. “Bad dream.” Except this feels nothing like a dream.
Perhaps I have lost it.