Scrivener's Tale by Fiona McIntosh Page B

originally by a curse being set upon him as a young man by a witch called Myrren. From thereon he was a puppet, dancing to the tune of her sinister magic. It controlled him. He moved through several lives, not by choice and each death he brought — including his sister’s — was heartbreaking in its own way. He tried to avoid it, but lives were given so Myrren could take her revenge on Morgravians.
    â€˜The curse’s dark path was finally cut short when he entered the body of King Cailech and became sovereign.’ Fynch gave a sad smile. ‘I know I say that casually and I know it requires a lot more explanation but we don’t have time now. Wyl died of old age as Cailech.’
    â€˜So it’s over? The curse I mean.’
    Fynch frowned. ‘Myrren’s curse has ended but that dark style of magic may not be. I don’t know where the threat is coming from and I don’t really know why I feel it, but I do feel it … even as removed as I am in the Wild. All the signs are there.’ Fynch looked up from the leaf he’d been studying and fixed Cassien with a firm, disconcerting gaze. ‘The magic is alive.’
    Wednesday night closed in early and Parisians knew winter had surely arrived as the icy cold wrapped its claws around the city. A ripe yellow moon was intermittently shuttered by heavy clouds drifting across its face and threatening rain. Gabe couldn’t wait to close the shop. He’d promised himself an indulgent risotto and on the way home had resisted the urge to take the shortcut; instead, wrapping his scarf tight around his mouth to keep out the chill, he ran to the nearest Monoprix to grab his fresh ingredients.
    The clouds burst while he was paying for his groceries and he’d forgotten his umbrella; he pictured it on his desk at the shop and remembered that Cat had distracted him as he was packing up to leave. Cursing his luck, he had to walk home in the rain, but rather than allow himself to slip into misery at being cold and wet, he pictured himself turning on the fire, sipping a glass of wine as he chopped leeks and garlic, the intoxicating aroma spreading as both began to warm in the olive oil and release their fragrances and flavours. His mouth watered. Gabe delved into his coat pocket for his house keys and hit the stairs outside his building, taking them two at a time, and nearly tripped over her at the top. He only just managed to stop himself from sending the bag of food sprawling across the landing.
    â€˜Angelina?’
    She pushed herself to standing on the stair. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured but didn’t seem embarrassed; more amused if anything.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’ Gabe asked, quickly adjusting his voice from surprise to a neutral tone. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently, suddenly worried for her.
    She shrugged.
    He looked around. ‘Where’s René?’
    â€˜Not here,’ she answered and he heard defiance.
    Gabe’s lips twisted slightly in thought. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, making up his mind. He opened the front door of his building and looked over his shoulder. ‘Come on, unless you want to sit here all night. It’s too cold to sit in the hallway.’
    â€˜Not for René, though?’
    â€˜Cruel guardians don’t count,’ Gabe answered with a wink.
    â€˜He’s not my guardian,’ she said quickly.
    â€˜All right. How would you describe him?’ he said. ‘I prefer the stairs to the lift,’ he warned.
    She shrugged as if it mattered not to her and followed him.
    â€˜Go on, how do you describe his relationship to you,’ he encouraged as they made their ascent to his apartment.
    â€˜Keeper is too gentle a word. Jailer is probably too harsh.’
    â€˜Supervisor?’ he offered helpfully but equally wry in his tone. ‘Minder?’ he added, flicking through his bunch of keys for the right one to open his