All secure. And yet Surreal’s comment about having drained her Gray scratched at him. He’d have felt any spell or use of Craft that required that much power. Unless . . .

Down and down and down through the cellars beneath the Hall until he came to the corridor that led to the door to his father’s private study. His private study now.

Like Saetan, he was a Black Widow and had the snake tooth and venom sac beneath the ring finger of his right hand. Like Saetan, he had been trained in creating the Hourglass’s tangled webs of dreams and visions—and trained in the creation and use of poisons, although most of that knowledge he had acquired on his own.

This study deep beneath the Hall was the place for the darker aspects of ruling Dhemlan and its people. It was the place for the creation of the darker kinds of Craft. It was not a place for weakened shields.

His hand moved just above the stone walls on either side of the door. He hadn’t been down here for a while, hadn’t felt the need to visit the study. An error.

Had Surreal thinned these shields for a reason, or had she chosen this part of the Hall because it was so out of the way that she thought using the shields here to drain the Gray would go unnoticed? It was tempting to follow her to the family estate she intended to visit and demand an answer, to ask why she was choosing this method of draining her Jewels instead of the personal contact he had offered. But he wouldn’t ask the question, wouldn’t demand an answer. Not until he figured out what was going wrong between them. For now . . .

Black power flowed into the shields, replenishing them and wiping away all trace of the Gray. The next time Surreal came down here, she would realize he had discovered her secret. And he might discover one or two other things as well, based on what she did—or didn’t—say.

* * *

* * *

Marian opened a secret drawer in the sewing cabinet Lucivar had given her when she’d still thought she was his housekeeper and nothing more. The cabinet held fabrics and skeins of yarn and all the other tools and supplies she used for the handcrafts and weaving that she enjoyed doing in her spare time.

It also held a simple wooden box that contained Jaenelle Angelline’s last gift: a piece of a clear Jewel no bigger than her thumbnail. A special spell inside the Jewel made it look translucent black.

“I made this for you, so don’t use it for anyone else,” Jaenelle said. “It won’t work for anyone else.”

“What is it?” Marian asked, studying the Jewel.

“It’s a healing spell. Put the Jewel in a mug and pour hot—not boiling—water over it. The hot water will release the spell. Let it steep for five minutes to release the whole spell and turn the water into a healing brew. Five minutes. No more. Time it carefully and make sure you drink all of it. This isn’t meant for something as simple as a head cold or a fever. It can be used only once, so keep it until you need it most. You’ll know when that day comes.”

Marian lightly pressed a hand against her belly. Had Jaenelle seen this in a tangled web of dreams and visions? Had she known there would be complications from a birth that would occur years after she was gone?

The pregnancy might not have happened. Lucivar had agreed to put aside the contraceptive brew because she’d wanted one more child, but this particular pregnancy might not have happened if he’d been away from home during that cycle of fertile days. A different pregnancy, a different outcome. And whatever Jaenelle had seen wouldn’t be more than a vision of what might have been.

But Jaenelle had seen something, had known a day would come when something would go wrong inside Marian and had gifted her with a way to make things right.

Was this the time? There were fewer and fewer days when she had the strength and energy to do more than take care of the baby. There were fewer and fewer nights when she wanted more from Lucivar than the warmth of his body and the unspoken assurance that she wasn’t facing this unknown illness alone.

Was it time?

“Don’t leave it too late, Marian.”

Even when it took a while, women recovered from hard birthings. Maybe she was expecting too much from herself.

Maybe she was afraid to make a choice because she didn’t know what to expect—and all Jaenelle could tell her was the healing would depend on why the spell was needed and would continue for as long as required. Which meant she might be bedridden for days, caught in whatever way the healing manifested.

Was it time?

Winsol was a few weeks away, a time of happiness and celebration. A time when the family gathered together. She didn’t want to shroud the Blood’s most important celebration with however the healing would manifest itself.

“Admit it,” Marian whispered. “You’re scared. You don’t want this to be serious enough that you need Jaenelle’s gift.”

She’d give her body a few more weeks to recover by itself. If she was still unwell after Winsol, she would use Jaenelle’s gift and make the healing brew—and hope that postponing this decision wasn’t going to be a fatal mistake.

TWELVE

Anticipating his father’s arrival, Dillon set the box of carefully wrapped gifts next to the trunk of clothes. He hadn’t been able to afford much and had spent more than he should have for these Winsol gifts.

During the weeks leading up to Winsol, he had gone from one town to the next, reluctant to use the “if you loved me” spell on girls whose families couldn’t afford a decent payoff and might agree to a handfast because even a minor aristo would enhance their social standing. He couldn’t see himself spending a year with any of those girls—and their families. And the aristo girls he might have targeted for money looked at him like cats looked at mice—something to play with until it was too broken to be amusing.

He’d ended up in a small village where he’d found work in a sweetshop, of all places, and had settled in to do some honest work. The owner of the shop, a Warlord heading into his twilight years, had been pleased by his enthusiasm and glad to have employed a young man who wanted to learn all aspects of the trade.

Then the bitches found him. Not the girls from merchant families who had thought he was shy because he didn’t flirt. No, it was the bitches from the handful of aristo families in the village, who must have talked to someone who had talked to someone. Oh, the first couple of times they came in, they bought the chocolates and other sweets. Then they made it very clear to the owner that they expected to be able to buy something else as well—and if they couldn’t buy the services of that particular sweet, well, a shop depended on the perceived quality of its merchandise, didn’t it?

He didn’t blame the owner for dismissing him. After all, one of the bitches was a second cousin to the District Queen who ruled that town. The owner couldn’t even lodge a complaint about a verbal threat when it would have been his word against an aristo’s. And for what? To defend a young man who might have been a good worker but whose reputation was already sullied?