Brightly Woven(79)

“It’s the truth; ask Oliver,” I said. “This is your chance. If the king really is dead, there’s no reason to go ahead with such a foolish war. Make amends with the queen and find a peaceful solution.”

Hecate turned toward her desk, lifting a blank sheet of paper. When she looked up, I thought I saw real shame there.

“Get out,” she said harshly. “I have letters to write.”

I made my way back to my former quarters alone, wondering if my things were still where I had left them. I had thought about trying to find North, but with men and wizards filling the palace to capacity, it was like searching for a drop of water in the sea. Some stopped to look at me as I passed, but no one bothered me. It was a nice change.

After a considerable amount of wandering, I found the dark corner of the palace the Sorceress Imperial had assigned me. Unlocked, I thought, thank Astraea.

Inside, my room was almost exactly as it had been. My clothes were spread out across my bed, washed and folded. I picked up the blue dress my father had bought for me years ago in Provincia, holding it up to the light streaming through the window.

“It’s like you’ve never seen a dress before,” a voice said from the door. I spun around, to see Henry leaning against the doorframe.

“That’s my favorite,” he said. “It matches the color of your eyes.”

He took a step inside and shut the door behind him. My fingers tightened on the dress. I turned my back to him.

“I need to change and wash up,” I said. “Can we please talk later?”

“I want to know what’s going on. Why you’re dressed like that. Why you up and disappeared a week ago.” He put a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn around.

“I can’t tell you,” I said. Henry was staring at me with those brown eyes. I didn’t want to lie to him, but there wasn’t a chance in the world he would understand what was going on.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Henry asked. “The last time I checked, we were friends. We used to tell each other everything.”

“We’re not children anymore,” I said, and threw the dress down on the bed. “You keep acting like nothing’s changed, and you know it has.”

Henry took a step back. “Nothing has changed, Sydelle, not for me. But I can see that’s not the same for you.” He nodded toward the bracelet on my wrist. “Do I even need to ask who gave you that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, choking on the words. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t pretend anymore.”

“Listen to yourself,” Henry said in astonishment. “You’re scaring me. Is this the wizard’s doing? Did he do something to you?”

“No, of course not!” I said. “Please, you’re making this worse—just go, Henry. Please!”

“Come home with me,” Henry said. He reached out to take my hands, but I pulled them away. I saw the hurt in his eyes, and it felt like the walls were closing in on us.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Everything. I’ve changed. I don’t know if I can go back to the way things were before and be happy.”

“So you won’t be happy with me, not ever?” I looked up as anger flooded his words. “You know we’re supposed to be together; it’s the way it’s always been!”

But it was no longer the way it could be. How do you tell someone that he is a part of your past, and not your future?

“Please go,” I said. When he refused, when he tried to fold me into an embrace, I was the one to leave.

The door shut behind me, and it felt like a poor ending to a story that had been written long ago in the sands of a yellow mountain.

The weaving room was deserted by the time I found it, for which I was grateful. The thought of facing anyone, even a complete stranger, was unbearable. I wanted a place to be alone, to work in silence.

The other women had left the loom up. I rubbed my hands along the length of the cloak as I sat down, the threads smooth beneath my fingers. There was only a little still to be done, but I dove into the work with everything I had. I saw nothing else, felt only the warmth of magic and something else rushing through my veins.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next day passed as had the day before. The other women came and went, but I stayed behind long after they had gone, for what I hoped would be my final night of work. I poured every wish, every part of myself into each thread. I watched the yarn between my fingers take on a faint glow, even as my bracelet tinkled with the furious movements of my hands. I finished the row I was working on and sat back, a new thought coming over me.

I retrieved a sewing needle, and before I could begin to doubt myself, I stuck my finger. The droplet of blood, the same blood that had already caused so much strife, welled up against my pale skin. I pressed the finger to the upper left corner of the cloak. The effect was instantaneous—at the touch, the cloak lit up as if on fire, warming beneath my hands.

If my blood can do this, I wondered, what else can it do? Could it heal the curse of a dead witch, one passed from father to son? Could I give enough of it over time that it would cure him?

But, more important, would North ever take it?

Ingredients, plans, and tests flitted through my mind as I wove love—and more—into the remaining threads.