Chapter 34
Magdala glared at her father’s door and the door seemed to glare back. She wanted to knock, to push it open and duck inside, but what was she going to tell her father? That she’d taken a job for the man he hated? That she loved his enemy?
All her life, she had fought to keep her father afloat, while her own head dipped below the surface. Now, she’d taken a shotfire and blown a hole in his hull.
She bit her lip and twisted her hair around her hand. Eventually, she would see Huxley again, and Huxley would tell her father the truth.
Before she could decide what to do, someone said, “Magdala?”
Her father stood at the corner of the house. “What are you doing here, little hen?” he asked.
“I came to see you.”
He opened his arms. “I’m so pleased!”
Before she could remind herself that Seamus meant to kill the man she loved, she launched into him, wrapping her arms around him. He reminded her of safety and home, smelled familiar, and even as she dreaded him, she couldn’t help but bury her face in his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” he asked again, ushering her into the cottage. It was cold inside, as damp as a potting shed. No fire burned in the hearth.
“I’m here with my charge for the coronation,” she said.
“I hoped Huxley had convinced you to come home and help the cause."
Magdala’s smile froze. “No,” she said stiffly. “No, I haven’t spoken to Huxley. Have you?”
“We have been making plans for the coronation.”
He nodded toward a shotfire leaning against the mantle. It was longer than a man was tall, the barrel as big around as her forearm.
“What in Roz’s nest is that?” she demanded.
“A new invention from the bone yards of Ashkendor. It can fire from a half mile away with the precision of a hawk’s eye. It is said to blow a hole in a pumpkin the size of a pot lid.”
Magdala’s throat went dry. Her eyes locked on the shotfire, and she could not drag them away.
“But the prince is lowering taxes, not joining the war,” she choked. “The people aren’t rioting; there is very little dissent. There’s no need …”
Her father shook his head. “The curse is still real. And the official word came out just moments ago that the prince’s first policy will be to cut off trade with Ashkendor. A war is imminent, unless he is stopped.”
The room warped like melted wax. “But he said … I heard that he was going to lower taxes. Why would he change his mind? Knowing the danger?”
“Huxley rode by with the news. The prince officially announced his intentions, not a half hour ago.”
While she was eating supper with the other guards, Asherton had changed his mind and thrown away the whole plan. Her vision blurred red. Her cheeks burned. How could he do this to her? They had agreed.
Magdala swallowed. She could throttle Asherton later, but for now, she needed to find out more about her father’s plans. “What are you going to do?”
He cast her a sidelong look. “Come now, I can’t tell you that.”
“I need to keep my charge away from danger,” she said.
Seamus lifted his eyebrows. “Don’t stand behind the prince at the coronation.”
She crossed to the hearth and took a log from the woodbox. It was green and wouldn’t burn well. “Da, I don’t think this is wise. It’s so public and …”
“I want it to be public,” he said quickly. “I want it to be dramatic—bloody.”
Magdala’s stomach pitched. Her dream about Asherton on the stairs shot across her mind.
“Da, I know you’re passionate, and I respect that—” She startled at how easily the lie slipped out of her just to placate him.
Was this a habit she never noticed before?
“But if you kill the prince, you’ll be hanged. ”
“More likely given a medal.”
“No, Da, not given a medal. Hanged. And you won’t get Elegy back.”
“Huxley has promised I will.”
A chill ran down her spine. “Huxley promised you Elegy?”
“He’s been very helpful since you left. Lots of clever ideas.”
“You can’t trust Huxley,” Magdala said. But maybe he could, now that he could no longer trust her.
“He’ll be back soon and you can speak with him yourself. Now, who are you guarding? Huxley said it was a secret.”
Magdala’s mind whirred. She needed to get the truth out of him and quickly, before Huxley arrived and called her bluff. “No one interesting, just some decrepit old duchess who smells of old lace and sour milk. But you are the one with the news. I’m bored. Tell me your plan.”
She lit the fire and sat upon the hearth, trying to appear casually curious. Beads of sweat dribbled from her hair, and she crossed her arms over her stomach to hide her trembling hands.
“It’s a good plan, little hen. It will make the kingdom turn its head and watch. Simple.”
“The best plans always are,” she replied, her gaze drifting back to the shotfire. She needed to get him out of the room so she could inspect it and then damage it in some way. “Do you have any water?” she asked. “I’m parched.
“Not in the house. In the well outside.”
“Would you fetch me some? I’ve been standing in hot rooms all day, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet.”
Seamus looked annoyed, but he didn’t protest. Groaning, he pushed out of the chair and stomped out the door. The instant it shut behind him, Magdala darted up and grabbed the shotfire.
It was heavy and unwieldy. She ran her hand along the barrel, then inspected the firing mechanism.
A little tray stood beside the hammer, which meant it used black powder.
The powder horn must be nearby. Frantic, Magdala tore around the room, rifling through drawers and in the kitchen cupboards.
Outside, the well creaked — her father drawing up the bucket.
He would be back in a moment, and she wouldn’t get another chance.
She would either have to reconcile having Asherton’s chest, and hers with him, hollowed out like a pumpkin on Harvest Moon, or she would have to confront her father and take the shotfire herself, risking a new, more devious plan.
Tearing open the drawer in her father’s writing desk, she finally found the powder horn.
Weighing it in her hand, Magdala rushed to the kitchen and pulled down her bag of flour.
Carefully, she pushed the window open. It squeaked and she froze.
Her father’s footsteps rustled in the grass, a few strides from the door.
Her blood whistling in her temples, Magdala dumped the black powder into the garden bed outside.
It was heavy and clumped, an odd texture.
Hastily, she scooped flour into the powder horn with her bare hands, spilling white dust all down her black uniform.
When the horn weighed enough, she wiped it on her shirt and raced back across the room, stuffing it into the drawer where she found it.
As she pushed it closed, the door opened and Seamus returned with a bucket of water.
“What are you doing?” he asked, taking in her flour-marred clothes.
“I was going to make you some bread,” she said, smiling breathlessly. “The larder is bare.”
“You’re a good girl.” Seamus offered her a joyless smile. “Thank you. Huxley is coming soon, so make a little extra.”
“All out of yeast, I fear,” Magdala said, throwing up her hands. “I’ll come back tomorrow with more and make up a few loaves for all your friends.”
“Yes.” A mad light glinted in his eyes. “We will have a great celebration tomorrow.”
He planted his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. Magdala itched to push him violently away and then shout herself hoarse at him. Swallowing acid, Magdala turned and charged out of the cottage.