Chapter 46
Voices whispered in Magdala’s dreams—angry, like two disgruntled bears. As she dragged her weary eyes open, the sharp tang of mustard and the bitter cloy of herbs met her. The door was shut, but heavy footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Her father and Zephyr had returned.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but she’d nodded off despite Asherton’s labored breathing. Now, the room was quiet. No rattling lungs, no staccato coughs. Horror overcame her—had she finally slept because Asherton had died and fallen silent?
Panicked, Magala turned over and found the bed empty, the blankets smoothed, and Asherton nowhere in sight.
Flinging the covers aside, she jumped up, bounded across the room, and wrenched open the door.
She stumbled into the living room, her hair a wild mass of disordered curls and her clothes rumpled.
“Where is he, Da?” she demanded.
“Just here, my love,” Asherton replied. He was sitting at the table, across from Seamus.
Asherton looked so improved, Magdala could only gaze at him in shock, wondering if this was a dream or some wishful hallucination.
He was dressed in an oversized green sweater, knitted with ducks flying across the shoulders and chest, and the same canvas pants he’d worn when they arrived.
His eyes were tired, but his cheeks were pink.
“Good morning,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“What kind of magic is this?” she asked, suspicious.
Seamus sniffed. “I said I would get him a tincture, and I’m a man of my word.”
“A magic tincture?”
“Only the best, of course.”
“Those are expensive.”
Seamus frowned, and Magdala suddenly noticed that the living room was empty. No more brobdingnagian furniture, no lake-sized rug pooling against the wainscot. Nothing but a pair of her father’s boots standing forlornly in the center of the floor.
“Da.” She stared at the void, half expecting the furniture to materialize from the dust motes in the air. “Did you sell the furnishings?”
“Well …” he puffed. “They never did fit.”
“Thank you, Da.”
Seamus shrugged.
She crossed to the table, looped her arms around Asherton’s neck from behind, and kissed his cheek. “You look so much better today.”
“I was fine last night,” he said.
Seamus huffed and took Asherton’s arm in his hands, gently running his fingers along the length of his crooked radius bone. “The swelling is better,” he said. “How did you break it?”
“Magdala fell on me,” Asherton replied dryly.
“Magdala saved his life,” Magdala said, ruffling his hair as she passed into the kitchen.
Zephyr was standing at the counter, looking weary and grumpy as he prepared tea.
Seamus stilled, his eyes resting on the fresh marriage scar around Asherton’s wrist.
Magdala lifted her chin defiantly, holding up her own arm. With a sharp inhale through his nose, Seamus gripped Asherton’s elbow and wrist, yanked, and twisted.
Asherton screamed and lurched forward on the table. The teapot shattered on the floor, and Zephyr cried, “Slorus, you animal!”
“DA!” Magdala shrieked. “What is bloody wrong with you?”
Seamus dropped Asherton’s arm. “Fixed.”
Asherton dragged his newly straightened arm into his lap and then bent over and vomited on the floor.
“What the hell, Da!” Magdala snapped. She ran to Asherton as he sat up, panting.
Seamus pushed his chair back loudly and stalked into the kitchen. After rifling around in a drawer, he found a wooden spoon and some leather straps and returned to the table.
“I’ll splint it,” he said, holding out his hand for Asherton’s arm.
Asherton let out a dry laugh. “Your bedside manner needs work.”
“You defiled my daughter,” Seamus growled.
“Unfortunately, there hasn’t been any time for defiling,” Asherton said.
Before Seamus could reply, Magdala snatched the supplies from him and sat in the chair across from Asherton. “Stay away from my husband,” she said.
“Why couldn’t you get a paper marriage, like your mother and I?” Seamus moaned. “Those are just as legal, and they’re not magical, eternal bonds with very serious consequences.”
“He has a point,” Zephyr muttered, then he looked mortified at himself. “Not that I agree with him, but it seems hasty.”
“Mags, I don’t think they believe we’re serious about this,” Asherton said.
“Well, it is hard to tell if this will last — it’s not as though we’ve both risked our lives for the other …”
“Several times …” Asherton added.
“You nearly drowned for me.”
“You were nearly blown up for me.”
Sinking into the lone wooden rocking chair by the fire, Seamus said, “No getting rid of him now, is there?”
A hopeful smile lit Magdala’s face. “Thank you, Da.”
“But Elegy belongs to you now, does it not?” he asked, leaning eagerly forward.
Magdala’s smile faded. For a moment, she had thought he was accepting her and Asherton because he loved her, because this was what she wanted. But it was still all tied to that wretched, wretched house.
“You can’t have the house, Da. We will live there if we want to, but you can’t have it back. It isn’t yours, and it never really was.”
Something dark crossed Seamus’s face—something Magdala couldn’t translate. “Alright then,” he said.
“Da …”
But he stood so abruptly that the chair nearly toppled over. “I’m going for a walk,” he said and stomped out the door.
The room fell silent until Asherton cupped his hand over Magdala’s. “I’m sorry, Mags.”
“I knew he wouldn’t come around,” she said. Her voice broke. Afraid she might cry, Magdala got up and marched into the kitchen, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m making camfe. Who would like a cup?” she barked.
Asherton watched her with concern, ignoring Zephyr as he sat down in Magdala’s vacated chair and lifted Asherton’s arm. “Give him time. Parents don’t like secret marriages,” Zephyr said gruffly, sliding the splint into place and binding it with the leather straps.
Asherton winced. “Sorry, Zeph.”
“I must have mislaid my invitation,” he grumbled.
“It was a very private affair.”
Zephyr cleared his throat. “Well, at least let’s have a nice dinner when we get home.”
“Of course,” Asherton said. “You can pick the menu.”
“Fish?” Magdala asked.
Zephyr glared at her. “You’re not amusing, Magdala.”
Magdala let out a long sigh. “I should follow Da and see where he’s going. You stay here and rest.”
Asherton caught her hand as she passed. “Stay. Zeph can go.”
“After nearly drowning half the village? I think not.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”
Magdala couldn’t walk brazenly through town, so she took back alleys and side streets, searching for her father. But Seamus wasn’t in the tavern, or the grocer, or the bookshop. When she couldn’t find him at any of his usual haunts, Magdala returned to the cottage.
She found her father sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his hands.
“Da,” she said warily, “where is Ash?”
Seamus opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Ice spread through Magdala’s veins. “Da?”
The bedroom door burst open, and Huxley strode into the room.
“Where are they?” Huxley demanded.
The sight of Huxley made Madala sick. She drew her knives and lunged at him, screaming, “Where is he? What have you done to him?”
Huxley ducked. Footsteps clattered on the stairs, hands clamped on Magdala’s arms, and two burly royalists dragged her back, her heels scraping on the floor.
“DA!” Magdala cried. “What have you done?”
Seamus sat like a stone statue, his hands folded before him, his eyes squeezed shut. “I gave him medicine. I let him rest. But I could not keep him here forever. The kingdom is at risk.”
The front door creaked, and a handful of royalists swarmed in.
“What did you do to him?” Magdala snarled.
Huxley ignored her. “You said they would be here, Seamus. Where are they?”
Seamus would not look at Magdala. “They left. I tried to stop them, but I could not.”
Huxley rolled his eyes. “You’re such an imbecile, Slorus.” He turned to the horde of zealots whose bodies corked the open door. “Take the girl. She knows where he is.”
Seamus started out of his seat. “That was not the arrangement!”
“And you said they would be here!” Huxley roared.
Magdala stomped on her captor's foot. His hand slackened, and she cracked her elbow into the other man’s stomach.
Doubling forward, he let go of her arm, and Magdala dashed into the kitchen.
Her bread lame lay on the windowsill, and she snatched it up as Huxley pounded after her.
She whirled, slashing it at his throat, but jumped back, ashen-faced.
“Be still, Magdala!” he cried. “You’re so violent.”
“I wish I’d snapped your neck when I had the chance,” she said, edging out of the kitchen, but before she could flee, something hard and sharp cracked against her head, and the world plunged into darkness.