The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(20)

“How bad is it? You look a fright.” Edwina took out a bundle of herbs from her purse and gently crushed them with her fingers so that their aroma released under his nose.

“I dinna know what’s happening to me,” he began, but then the boy interrupted, asking for his payment.

“Delivered her like you asked.”

“Never mind that,” Edwina said. “Help me get him to the cab and I’ll pay twice what he owes you.”

Once the boy recovered from the promise of newfound riches, he got his shoulder under one side of Ian while Edwina lifted from the other. Between them they held his body upright long enough for him to stagger to the cab. Edwina gave the boy a gold coin she’d found in the mud a fortnight earlier, thanked him for his honesty, and then instructed the driver to return to the shop posthaste, offering him a twin of the coin she’d given the boy. As they pulled away, Ian collapsed against her shoulder, muttering about his brain splitting in two and “so much blood.” She soothed him with a tune, humming a healing spell as they rolled through the city, wondering what had gone so terribly wrong.

By the time the cab returned to the shop, Ian had recovered enough strength to walk inside under his own power. Mary met them at the door. “Goodness, what happened to him?”

“Something went wrong with the spell,” Edwina answered. “Quick, help me get him upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Mary locked the shop door and checked the street as if looking for nosy neighbors spying on them. “Wherever do you mean to put him?”

“Father’s bed. He can rest there until I get this sorted.”

Mary muttered something about propriety and regret, then begrudgingly helped get the man up the stairs and laid out on the folding bed. They managed to remove his boots and get him under a quilt, while he moaned about the blood in his throat and the pain at the back of his head. He wrestled with his covers and his brow grew damp with sweat, so Mary offered to fetch a cool cloth and some hot tea to settle him.

Edwina inspected him for any bleeding but found no new wounds—only the one that had preceded their acquaintance. Fearing his injury was internal, she held her palm to his forehead and said, “There now, Ian, you’re all right.” But he was far from all right. Something had gone terribly wrong. His mind and body were rejecting either the spell or the memory, yet she had no cure for either.

“Why do you keep calling me by that name? What is this place? What’re you doing to me? Help!” he screamed. “Help me!”

He’d been more sober in the cab, responding to the name Ian without issue. Even then he’d slipped in and out of lucidity, sometimes eyeing her with suspicion and pulling away and other times squeezing her hand and thanking her for coming to get him. But what had gone wrong? She’d done the spell exactly right, hadn’t she? Curse Father for his selfish wandering! He’d have known what to do, while she was left to guess, possibly destroying a man’s mind in the process.

Mary returned with the cool cloth on a tray along with a small teapot, cup, and dainty pitcher of milk. “Any better?”

Edwina took the cloth and pressed it against Ian’s forehead. He was merely warm to the touch, yet he writhed as if he suffered from brain fever. “No, something’s not right,” she said, regaining her confidence. “I’m certain I did the spell correctly, so it must be the memory itself. Perhaps too much time had elapsed to return it to him?” She turned to Mary. “What should we do? Can you remove the memory from him again?” Ian let out the strangest noise in his throat, as if he were drowning. “Oh, Mary, you must. Now!”

Her sister was hesitant. She watched Ian as she poured the tea she’d prepared. “Do you think it wise to continue interfering? With his mind, I mean. What if we make him worse? I’m not sure either of us has the skill to bring him back from that kind of damage.”

Before Edwina could answer, the poor man collapsed from his fit. His face was drenched in sweat and his skin had paled to the hue of uncooked cod, but at least he’d stopped thrashing. All the fear and tension had been released with unconsciousness, and yet he remained a man in need of urgent remedy. Edwina ignored her sister and unpacked her vials and herbs. She had to do something to help him.

As Edwina set a course in her mind for which spell to use to ease his suffering, a small yet forceful voice admonished them from the corner of the room. “You must do this thing now!” it said.

Startled, the sisters twisted around to see a creature standing no taller than the brass footrail at the end of the bed. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and he wore a dingy green wool coat with red-and-brown plaid trousers. His face was not exactly ugly. It was humanlike, only the features were more exaggerated—the lips thin but the mouth oversize, the eyes round and curious, and the nose slightly puggish. His feet, large and shaggy, were unshod and made no sound as he climbed onto the bed to better view the man lying there.

“Stars above, where did you come from?” Edwina stood to put some distance between herself and the intruder until she understood more clearly what his intentions were. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

“Yes, explain yourself,” Mary said, holding the cup and saucer with perfect poise as she studied the little imp. Mary was always the cool one when it came to confrontation, though Edwina often wondered whether the trait came from confidence or mere indifference.