I pushed to my feet and grabbed my coat from the back of the back of the chair. Eava appeared in the doorway, a tray of chocolate buns in her hand. “Where are ye off to, my sweet boy?”
“A trial in Gaul,” I muttered, tugging on my coat.
Eava’s gaze followed the cursed dagger as I tucked it into my sheath and hid it behind me. “What would ye be needing that dagger fer?”
My teeth clenched so hard it felt like my jaw would shatter. “Do me a favor. Don’t let Tadhg drink himself into a stupor tonight. He’ll need to have a clear head in the morning.”
“Rían—”
“Tell him I’ve left the ledgers in his bedside locker, next to the one he keeps.”
“Rían, what’s in yer head?”
I crossed the room, stopping when I reached the witch. Then I stole a bun, kissed Eava on the forehead, and evanesced.
* * *
Cigar smoke and chatter filled the frigid courtroom. Humans nattering on about the weather. Upcoming plans. Some recent scandal. Not one person assembled in the round room appeared the least bit concerned by the impending trial. It sounded like a night at the pub instead of a court of law, with about the same amount of justice being served. The magistrate—a shriveled man without so much as a strand of hair beneath his curly white wig—sat on a chair behind a mammoth desk, black robes concealing his withered frame.
Two soldiers in red livery entered through a side door. Same as always, dragging some poor—and likely innocent—Danú behind—
I blinked.
And blinked again.
I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands, but nothing seemed to help.
Because every time I looked at the person the guards had clapped in chains, I saw Aveen.
Her luscious golden curls matted. Her dress torn, hem blackened, speckled with dark stains that looked a lot like blood.
Witch, a man behind me murmured.
She wasn’t a feckin’ witch. She was as human as the rest of them.
Monster, his bespectacled companion agreed with a nod that shook his jowls.
My hand fell to the dagger at my belt. I’d show him a feckin’ monster.
Murderer.
There must have been some mistake.
She flinched when the magistrate slammed the gavel. The room fell silent as the soldiers forced my soulmate down onto the stool, swords drawn, aimed at her. If they so much as twitched, I’d have their heads.
“What’s your name, witch?” the magistrate demanded.
Aveen’s dirt-smudged chin lifted. “My name is Lady Aveen Bannon. And I am not a witch.”
Leave it to her to hold on to her stubborn pride in the face of such an impossible situation. If they truly believed her to be a witch—and it wasn’t looking good—then her fate was already sealed.
I cleared my throat, not knowing what the hell I was going to say, only that I had to say something. Aveen leaned forward on her stool, her gaze locking with mine. Although my expression remained impassive, beads of sweat collected along my hairline and at the back of my neck. Her eyes widened, as if she could see straight through my glamour. I checked my hands to ensure it hadn’t slipped. They were still as freckled and pale as they had been when I arrived.
“Do you have something to say, emissary?” the magistrate sniffed.
I’d been to enough “trials” to understand the court’s mind was made up well before anyone set foot inside the courthouse. Aveen wouldn’t be walking out of this alive. There was only one way I could think to save her. And that meant giving the people what they were looking for.
Give them a witch.