To Kill a Kettle Witch (Novel of the Mist-Torn Witches) by Barb Hendee Page A

there is no telling what they might learn. May I bring them up this evening to give you a report?”
    Malcolm appeared intrigued by this idea, but he said, “I don’t know how much time I’ll have. As I said, my son is ill.”
    “One of the seers is Prince Anton’s personal healer. She’s an apothecary, and she would be honored to look at your son.”
    “Prince Anton’s healer?” Malcolm breathed out through his mouth. “All right. Yes, bring them both before dark.”
    “You’ll need to send a few guards down for us. They are both pretending to be part of the group down there to win trust and cooperation. So am I.” He motioned to his tabard. “I have other clothing.”
    If Malcolm found this odd, he didn’t show it. “I’ll send two men at dusk.”
    With a nod, Jaromir turned away.
    He had set things in motion. If there was someone up here on castle grounds responsible for placing the curse, Céline and Amelie would find out.
    *   *   *
    Amelie spent the morning sitting at the small stationary table in the blue wagon as one person after another came in to be read. Helga was outside, helping to manage things, and she decided who would come in to see Amelie and who would go and see Céline.
    This experience was different from readings Amelie had done in the past. For one, she didn’t have to convince anyone that she wasn’t a charlatan. She had nothing to prove. No one expected her to put on any kind of “show” or play the mystic seer.
    The Móndyalítko people simply came in, bowed to her politely, and then grasped her hand. She’d close her eyes and latch onto their spirits and see images from their past.
    By late morning, she’d seen nothing to give her anyindication that anyone was responsible for placing the curse, but she hadn’t expected to find something of that nature. These people wanted their names cleared, and they believed in her ability to place them beyond suspicion.
    Still, the scenes she did see only served to make her feel more lost in this world. Most of the images were of laughter and travel and lively performances. She was coming to envy such a life of movement and freedom and lack of responsibility beyond survival, companionship, and enjoyment.
    However, there were some difficult moments.
    She saw one memory of a young woman sitting with a dying father while her brother ran to a nearby town for a healer, and when the brother returned, he wept as he related that no one could come to help a group of vagabonds.
    The Móndyalítko faced hardships, too.
    Freedom had a price.
    She’d never done so many readings in a row and was beginning to grow tired when Helga appeared in the door.
    “I’ll need a rest soon,” Amelie said.
    “I thought as much,” Helga answered. “Can you do one more? Then you should quit for the day.”
    “Yes.”
    The thought of quitting for the day was a relief.
    “Now, you get in there and do as your father says!” Helga ordered someone as she moved to stand aside.
    A girl of perhaps eighteen came slowly through the open door.
    Amelie remembered seeing her upon their arrival,and of Alondra mentioning her later, and then seeing her dance last night. She was the daughter of Rupert, who had welcomed them, and she was the wife of the man who’d been killed under interrogation.
    She seemed to both sway and glide at the same time. She was small and slender with black silky hair hanging down her back. Her skin was pale, and her large eyes were black. Her mouth was heart-shaped and tinted red. She wore a deep burgundy skirt with a white blouse so low-cut it exposed a good deal of the tops of her perfectly rounded breasts. Her ears were adorned with several silver rings.
    “You’re Lilah?” Amelie asked. “Your husband is the one who was killed. I am sorry.”
    Not far through the door, Lilah stopped. Her expression was petulant, and she ignored the condolence.
    Instead, she looked Amelie up and down, and whatever she saw didn’t please her. “I