slightly spicy scent sped through me until my whole body ached for him.
Nothing is but what is not.
“Hide it,” he said with a glance at the scabbard in my hand. “Are you okay with that? Or would you like some help?”
“I can take it from here, thanks.” Bastard.
He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. “Good-night, Kate.” Turning the corner, he walked ten feet down the corridor. Lady Nairn had given him the room right next to mine.
In that, I thought I saw the long hand of Athenaide.
Just inside my room, I leaned back against the door, wondering whether I was about to cry or scream. In the end I did neither, splashing water on my face at the sink instead.
A small fire was burning cheerily in the fireplace; the luxuries of life with a staff, I thought. Toweling off, I sank into one of the armchairs before the fire and drew the knife out of the sheath, watching it ripple in the light. My outburst in the circle had left me shaken. Not just because it had been childish, but because for all that my facts were right, it was Sybilla who had hit, however messily, upon some truth. Not about the knife, but about the place. There was something strange about that circle in its clearing in the woods. A place of power , she’d said. And she was right. I’d felt it too. But I wasn’t as sure as she was that the power there was entirely benign.
She must die, the voices had chanted. Who must die?
The phrase was Shakespeare’s, I was certain of that. But not from Macbeth. On my phone, I pulled up the Web and entered the words into a Shakespearean search engine. Othello, Julius Caesar, and Henry VIII, came the answer. Spoken about Desdemona, Portia, and Queen Elizabeth.
I frowned. It had been an old jest between my mentor roz Howard and myself that my auburn hair, dark eyes, and the tiniest hint of a hook in my nose made me look like Shakespeare’s queen, in her days as a princess. It was a jest that Ben had kept alive. But the voices couldn’t have known that. Could they?
I clicked on Henry VIII, pulling up the phrase in its context.
She must die:
She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,
A most unspotted lily shall she pass
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.
Lily, I thought raggedly. They hadn’t threatened me; they’d threatened Lily. And I’d let her walk out of that circle alone.
I stood up, filled with sudden dread. I had no idea where her bedroom was. On this floor, I thought. I had to find it—and her—if it meant knocking on every door in the goddamned house. I was already striding for the door when I heard a quiet tap from the other side and flung it open.
11
LILY STOOD in the hall in loose flannel pants and an old black Belle and Sebastian sweatshirt, a book and a small wooden box under her arm, her face bright with excitement. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve had an idea, and, well, I saw your light on, so I thought I might as well run it by you.” She bounded into the room. “You aren’t angry with me, are you?”
In my confusion, I felt as if I’d been bounced by Tigger. “for listening? I would’ve done the same thing at your age. Maybe at my age.”
“I’m not normally so nosey. Only, I saw the knife out on the terrace before dinner, and afterward I heard you talking about it in the little sitting room, and I was so curious…. Is that it?”
It lay where I’d left it on the table, shining in the firelight. “Yes.” Setting the book and the box on the table, she caught it up, hefting it in her hand.
I glanced at the book. The cover showed a tall stone standing alone in a green field under lowering clouds, a single bright ray of sun illuminating the scene. It was titled Ancient Pictland, by Corra ravensbrook. Using both hands, Lily began waving the knife in slow motion, almost like she was doing Tai Chi. “Do you think it’s really a thousand years old?”
“I don’t know.” How could it be? How could it not
Nothing is but what is not.
“Hide it,” he said with a glance at the scabbard in my hand. “Are you okay with that? Or would you like some help?”
“I can take it from here, thanks.” Bastard.
He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. “Good-night, Kate.” Turning the corner, he walked ten feet down the corridor. Lady Nairn had given him the room right next to mine.
In that, I thought I saw the long hand of Athenaide.
Just inside my room, I leaned back against the door, wondering whether I was about to cry or scream. In the end I did neither, splashing water on my face at the sink instead.
A small fire was burning cheerily in the fireplace; the luxuries of life with a staff, I thought. Toweling off, I sank into one of the armchairs before the fire and drew the knife out of the sheath, watching it ripple in the light. My outburst in the circle had left me shaken. Not just because it had been childish, but because for all that my facts were right, it was Sybilla who had hit, however messily, upon some truth. Not about the knife, but about the place. There was something strange about that circle in its clearing in the woods. A place of power , she’d said. And she was right. I’d felt it too. But I wasn’t as sure as she was that the power there was entirely benign.
She must die, the voices had chanted. Who must die?
The phrase was Shakespeare’s, I was certain of that. But not from Macbeth. On my phone, I pulled up the Web and entered the words into a Shakespearean search engine. Othello, Julius Caesar, and Henry VIII, came the answer. Spoken about Desdemona, Portia, and Queen Elizabeth.
I frowned. It had been an old jest between my mentor roz Howard and myself that my auburn hair, dark eyes, and the tiniest hint of a hook in my nose made me look like Shakespeare’s queen, in her days as a princess. It was a jest that Ben had kept alive. But the voices couldn’t have known that. Could they?
I clicked on Henry VIII, pulling up the phrase in its context.
She must die:
She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,
A most unspotted lily shall she pass
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.
Lily, I thought raggedly. They hadn’t threatened me; they’d threatened Lily. And I’d let her walk out of that circle alone.
I stood up, filled with sudden dread. I had no idea where her bedroom was. On this floor, I thought. I had to find it—and her—if it meant knocking on every door in the goddamned house. I was already striding for the door when I heard a quiet tap from the other side and flung it open.
11
LILY STOOD in the hall in loose flannel pants and an old black Belle and Sebastian sweatshirt, a book and a small wooden box under her arm, her face bright with excitement. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve had an idea, and, well, I saw your light on, so I thought I might as well run it by you.” She bounded into the room. “You aren’t angry with me, are you?”
In my confusion, I felt as if I’d been bounced by Tigger. “for listening? I would’ve done the same thing at your age. Maybe at my age.”
“I’m not normally so nosey. Only, I saw the knife out on the terrace before dinner, and afterward I heard you talking about it in the little sitting room, and I was so curious…. Is that it?”
It lay where I’d left it on the table, shining in the firelight. “Yes.” Setting the book and the box on the table, she caught it up, hefting it in her hand.
I glanced at the book. The cover showed a tall stone standing alone in a green field under lowering clouds, a single bright ray of sun illuminating the scene. It was titled Ancient Pictland, by Corra ravensbrook. Using both hands, Lily began waving the knife in slow motion, almost like she was doing Tai Chi. “Do you think it’s really a thousand years old?”
“I don’t know.” How could it be? How could it not
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