Greythorne (Bloodleaf 2)

“And who are you, exactly?” Lorelai asked, an eyebrow raised; she was always the most cautious and skeptical of the girls.

“My name is Valentin,” Zan said. “But most call me Zan.”

Rafaella’s eyes widened. “As in . . . Valentin, the king of Achleva? Really?”

He nodded grimly. “Yes. But contrary to what is often said about me, I am not mad, murderous, or dead.”

“You do look like you’ve spent some time on death’s doorstep, however. Both of you.” Jessamine put her hands on her emerald-silk-swathed hips.

My exhaustion was bone-deep now; I could hardly keep myself upright. But I made for the stairs, despite swaying precariously. “This was a mistake. It’s too risky. There’s no place in the tavern they won’t find us. And even if they do believe we hid without your knowledge, they could punish you for not knowing just as well. We should go.”

“You can barely stand!” Rafaella protested, blocking my halfhearted attempt to escape.

Jessamine clucked her tongue and went to the back of the cellar, where shelves were crowded with wine bottles and jugs of ale. “I didn’t know that this closet was meant for hiding witches, but it makes sense; the Quiet Canary has long been a waystation for those on the wrong side of the law.” She reached behind the shelving, flipped a latch, and then stood aside as the whole wall swung pendulously forward. Her lamp illuminated a small opening on the other side, a tiny closet jammed with two tables and no chairs. The ceiling was so low that Jessamine, at nearly six feet, could not quite stand at her full height.

“Is that my sombersweet wine?” I asked, eyeing a cluster of bottles on the table.

“Hicks thought it best to keep it apart from the rest of our supply,” Jessamine said. “It’s too valuable to end up being guzzled by our less-discriminating patrons. Some of them would drink cups of arsenic if someone poured it for them and told them it was ale.”

Lorelai called again from the stairs. “Girls! Make haste!”

“All you have to do,” Rafaella said, handing off a few blankets to Zan, “is sit still and stay quiet until we get rid of them. Can you do that?”

“Quiet as the grave,” Zan said.

“Easy enough for you to say,” I said, wearily lowering myself to the cold dirt floor. “You’ve had four months of practice.”

Zan sighed as he situated a blanket over my shoulders before sinking beside me, arms draped over his knees. Softly, he said, “I had my reasons, Aurelia. I know how hard it must have been for you—”

“You don’t,” I said, shifting as far away from him as the tiny room would allow, just as Jessamine sealed up the door, taking the last light with her.

I was glad of the dark then; this way, Zan couldn’t see the two foolish tears that had escaped my eyes and were now leaving salty trails on my cheeks.

8

It was easy to tell when the Tribunal arrived, because everything went silent.

There was always a low buzz in the tavern: quiet conversations, the clink of glasses, drunken laughter. I didn’t realize that we could hear it, even from within the thick walls of our hiding place, until it stuttered to a stop.

The silence made the blackness seem blacker.

I felt my breath becoming shallower as time ticked past. Zan and I hadn’t spoken since the door was closed, but after listening to my sharp huffing for several minutes, he finally whispered, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I hissed. Then, “No. I have a dream like this sometimes, where I’m lost in the dark. But it isn’t dark, not really. Because there is no light or dark. It’s just . . . nothing. And I’m nothing. And there’s no past or future, or up or down, or land or sky. Everything is just . . .” I swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

“You’re having a panic attack,” he said. “I used to have them all the time. Steady your breathing. One, in. Two, out. Yes. Just like that.” His tone was low and rhythmic. “You have to ground yourself. Put your hands to the floor. What do you feel?”

“Dirt. It’s cold. Hard.”

“Yes. Keep that in mind. The earth is beneath you. It’s real. You can

hear my voice. I’m real. You have to keep yourself tethered to something solid.”

There was a slight scuffling sound and then a soft pop! to my left.

“What was that?” My breaths started to speed up again. “They might hear us . . .”

“They can’t hear us from upstairs, I promise. I just opened a bottle of wine, that’s all. At the very least, it will warm you up a little.”