“May I have some water, please?” I croaked.
Muttering under his breath, he pushed away from the chair and limped out of sight. A moment later, he returned. Setting a tiny tin cup on the other side of the bars, he used his dagger to nudge it closer. I scooted forward. He scurried back, colliding with the desk. The candle on top rattled; its flame shuddered.
I reached through the gap, my knuckle accidentally grazing the bars. A terrible hissing sound erupted. It felt like I’d thrust my hand into a fire.
I tried again, this time careful not to touch anything but the cup. Bringing it to my lips, I drank the few drops he’d given me. It tasted like sulfur but was blessedly cool.
“Thank you.”
The man gawked at me as if I’d cursed. I returned the cup to the other side of the bars and settled my back against the stone wall.
Had Charlie been kept in a cell like this one? Had he protested his innocence? Had he lost all hope or did some of it remain until that rope snapped his neck?
Boots thudded down the hall. Two soldiers in red livery appeared. At their request, the young guard unlocked the cell door.
I studied the soldiers’ young faces as they hauled me to my feet and forced me up a set of crooked wooden stairs, and into a large, round room.
Finely dressed men filled the gleaming mahogany chairs on either side of a narrow aisle. On a raised dais at the end of the aisle sat a wrinkled man in a white wig. His black robes made him look like the crier who used to spout messages of hate from the gallows back in Graystones.
Dull gray light filtered through the high windows. Cigar smoke mixed with notes of brandy followed me down the aisle to a short wooden stool with no back.
All hope was lost.
These sneering men trading harsh whispers had made up their minds about me before I’d set foot in this room.
Witch.
Monster.
Murderer.
The slurs differed from man to man. The only constant was what followed.
Deserves to die.
The gavel banged. The room quieted. The magistrate in the robes motioned me forward. My sluggish feet stumbled to the stool. Heavy hands settled on my shoulders, forcing me onto the seat. The soldiers remained at my back, swords drawn, prepared to strike me down.
The magistrate’s eyes narrowed as his lips curled back. “What’s your name, witch?”
“My name is Lady Aveen Bannon. And I am not a witch.”
To my right, someone snorted. I leaned around my guards to get a good look.
A man with tousled blond hair and alabaster skin sat on a bench by himself.
A man with piercing blue eyes.
Rían.
Relief flooded my veins. He’d come to save me.
Those blue eyes landed on me, but there wasn’t a hint of recognition. Not even a slight wince at the pathetic state of my torn, bloody dress, gone brown from dirt and muck.
What if he was still under his mother’s control? What if he didn’t know me? What if he hadn’t come to save me but simply to oversee another execution?
The magistrate leveled Rían with an irritated look. “Do you have something to say, emissary?”
“The witch’s name is Brian.” Rían’s fingers tapped against his knee. “It delights in taking the form of loved ones who’ve passed in order to infiltrate their homes and rob their families blind.”