I had not yet been given the full details of the ritual room. And a man was to come to give them to me. I was to wait. So I waited, sometimes reading the same paragraph over and over again as my mind detached, flying through the city, wondering where Lisbeth could be.

  When I finally heard a knock on my door, I promptly stood, pulled out my waistcoat, and walked to it. “You have the location,” I began.

  I did not stare at a palace guard. I did not face Bram or the king. I faced Lisbeth McQuarrie. For my escapee had returned. Voluntarily. Though I’d rather liked the idea of having to go out on the hunt for her.

  I stared at Lisbeth. She stared back.

  I can’t tell you how long we spent there, me with my hand on the door, her with one foot on the doorstep. Wind chased across the street. When I had last seen her, she had been in her bed robe. Now she wore a dress, quite thankfully. Or at least a jacket. I think I saw a hint of her robe underneath. And did that distract me? Would it distract you? Would your eyes be locked on the one thing you could never control but the one thing you wanted, nonetheless?

  Chapter Ten

  Lisbeth McQuarrie

  I returned. Because I had no choice, correct?

  I had never escaped that far, to be fair. Far enough to be away from this ordeal, but close enough to spring back into action should Winchester need me.

  I had hidden in one of his neighbor’s gardens, right under the thankfully thick and obscuring branches of a pine tree. And there I had sat, honing my skills, training my senses, locking them on Winchester’s house for the first sign of trouble.

  When I hadn’t been able to take it anymore… I had returned.

  And now I was stuck, halfway up the stairs to Winchester’s house. He wouldn’t move.

  Nor would his eyes. They were locked on me, and their attention was… ever-present.

  Wind blew down the street. It tugged at my jacket. The same jacket I had stolen off somebody’s line. I very much hoped they did not walk along and spy it.

  I ought to rush inside. Winchester wouldn’t let me.

  For several more seconds, he simply stared at me. And what could I do but stare back?

  It took the sound of quick horse hooves and the clattering wheels of a nearby cart for him to act. He reached down, grabbed my hand tenderly, and quietly pulled me inside.

  He closed the door. His eyes were still on me. It didn’t feel as if they would ever leave me. As they roved over my face, his lips opened quietly.

  Before he could ask his question, I got there first. “Yes, I took your spirit stones. It was before you indentured me—”

  I expected him to jump down my throat. Instead? He nodded at my bed robe and pressed in close, his silence spell reinitiating. “Go upstairs and change. Use magic to obscure your tracks so you can’t be spotted. Someone is watching the house. When you are done, come back to me, for we have a mission.”

  I stood there and blinked. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you be swamped by not just confusion, but by… well, uncontrollable emotions? This was the first time Winchester had stared at me for so long without fire dancing through his gaze.

  When I didn’t move, he turned me around. He looked as if he would lead me up the stairs himself. I wriggled out of his grip. I frowned at him. “Winchester?”

  “One day, you will tell me where my stones are. For now, it isn’t as if I can go and claim them. Are they safe?” he asked.

  I squeaked. “Quite safe.”

  “Change your clothes, Lisbeth. We have a mission.”

  “A mission,” I said quietly. I reached the second stair, paused, turned around, and stared at him. He remained where he was, arms crossed but not in an angry move.

  He gestured to me. I climbed another step, stopped, and repeated the move.

  “Lisbeth?” he warned in a trying tone, yet one that was nowhere near as hard as his usual brutal voice.

  Biting my tongue, though carefully, I climbed the stairs. I hurried to the wardrobe. I couldn’t think of an outfit. No, I could. The peach dress. And the only reason I could think of it was that an image of the way Winchester looked at me when I wore it came to mind.

  I soon changed.

  I placed the coat back in the wardrobe, hoping it would digest the incriminating evidence. Then I slowly walked back down the stairs. Was I taking the time to plan what I would do next? How? I couldn’t think. I was simply… taking the time to breathe. For breathe I would need to.

  Winchester waited by the door, arms still crossed. His eyes lit up – but only for a second as he saw me.

  Did that mean he wasn’t drawn in by my outfit? No. It meant he was, but he quickly darted his gaze away, cleared his throat, straightened, and pointed to the door. “I have just received a message from the palace. They have given me the location.”

  “Location? You mean of the secret ritual room they are charging you to find?” I pressed close and enjoyed the protection of his silence spell as I hissed, “You know it’s a trap, don’t you?”

  He inclined his head to the side. The most furtive, tentative of smiles climbed his lips half a second later. Why, it did not just climb them. It claimed them. “So you were close by all the time, were you, Lisbeth? Close enough by that you were spying on me?”

  I straightened. I even inadvisably plucked my hand off the railing and waved it wildly. I almost tripped down the last step.

  “Careful,” he chided. “I’m quite confident I repaired your ankle. But, Lisbeth,” his gaze darted up and locked on my eyes, “I’m even more confident you will get into further trouble. For that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  I bit my lip. I just wanted him to stop staring at me like that. Or did I? It was at once as uncomfortable as it was… engaging. Truly, truly engaging. The kind that takes your once plain, simple mind and elevates it.

  Most people do not believe they are trapped unless they are prisoners. Perhaps they have some horrid circumstance they are facing, but unless they are literally chained to it, they will still feel, on some level, that they are free. But a witch knows one thing. We are all trapped in some way. For our minds are our ultimate prisoners. Find ways around your fears, around your self-imposed limitations, and you will rise into a world freer than any other.

  Winchester was my literal prison guard. He’d indentured me. But… why was it that as his focus locked on mine with even greater force, it felt like, at the same time, he was the very thing that could set me free?

  I knew I should stop staring at him with such attentiveness. But that would involve him first turning from me and removing his own penetrating gaze.

  “This is a trap… you know that, don’t you, Winchester?” I muttered. “I heard the king’s parting words to you on your doorstep. I saw his eyes.” I shuddered. “He simply wants to find incriminating evidence against you.”

  “Of course it is a trap. My brother will now stop at nothing to have me. But he can’t get me.”

  “And why are you so confident of that?”

  “Because someone already—”

  I stiffened, my stomach sucking in, almost wrapping around my back. He wasn’t… about to say that somebody already had him… and that person wasn’t me, was it?

  I waited for him to finish his sentence. He didn’t. He simply smiled, gestured toward him with the flick of his finger, which was somehow dignified and not disrespectful, and pointed forward.

  My eyes strayed toward the horizon line, even though he hadn’t pointed that way.

  His gaze strayed toward it, too. Then he offered a simple smile. Brief, a little mysterious, and apparently all I would get. For once more, with barely a rest in between, we were being thrust into another mission. Or a trap. Whatever you wanted to call it. The most important fact was that, yet again, I would be by Winchester Stone’s side. And he would be by mine. And how long, you could ask, could we keep this up before something broke? It might be the indenturing spell. It might very well be my heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Winchester Stone

  I could think of a thousand reasons not to do this. Perhaps you could think of a thousand more. If we put together the brains of all of the best boffins on this planet, I’m sure you could give me the most compelling argument as to why it was stupid to go on this mission. I could give you one in my defense. I simply didn’t have any other option. Deny the king, and it would be grounds to be put in jail. Incidentally exactly where my brother wanted me.

  While he could of course prematurely pull the trigger and throw me in there anyway, he required evidence of some description. The Magical Academy would not be happy to lose me, one of their best wizards.

  Plus… I had the impression that whatever I would find in this secret ritual room might be useful. And, indeed, even if I came across a trap, who knew? Perhaps I had the firepower to blast through it anyway.

  I surreptitiously slid my gaze to the side and let my stare slide along said firepower.

  Lisbeth had bounced back almost entirely. When I had attended to her ankle, it had seemed dire. I’d even stood above her, shaking for almost a minute, wondering if I should take her to the Magical Academy for assistance, even though that would blow our cover.

  I had persevered. And so, it seems, had her body. She was back to being Lisbeth. Sorry. Not all the way back. She’d lost a measure of her pluck. Some of the sheen of her arrogance had been wiped off. I ought to ask whoever had wiped it off how they’d done such a marvelous job. I could take tips. And if I could learn that particular skill myself, it would put me in good stead to finally control this witch as opposed to being controlled by her.

  But while I could think that academically, my body was busy thinking something else. This deep troubling knot had formed in my stomach, and it only got tighter every time I stared at her. Whilst of course she was a good sport, following along beside me, every now and then, she would stare at her hands as if something had slipped inside. Perhaps a shadow. One, no matter how hard she tried, she could not remove.

  I would question her about what had occurred with Arlene. When we had the chance. And hopefully, after her tongue was sufficiently lubricated. Lisbeth McQuarrie was a very good liar.

  But clearly, the game had changed for her recently. And perhaps, it had changed for me. “We come upon the entrance soon,” I volunteered.

  “Entrance? You already know where it is? Well, this simply must be a trap, then,” she chided me.

  I lifted my hand to force her to pause. “The entrance to the tunnels, my dear. The catacombs. I imagine you know all about them. I imagine,” my eyes glittered, “that your previous life took you all over this fair city.”

  She bit her lip.

  I enjoyed the movement. All too much, in fact. There was such a rush of interest within me that fixed my attention on her lips, on her crinkling chin, on her angular neck, that an entire troop of my brother’s men could’ve come upon me, and I would’ve ignored them. But distractions aren’t there to last. Not when you’re in a situation as dire as mine.

  “Let’s have at it, then. You think these catacombs will lead to the correct ritual room? I’m sure it will be dangerous. Let’s do this while we still have energy.”

  And that line there refocused me on why I did not want to do this. She bustled forward, but in the easiest move of my life as if my fingers had been programmed for this, I grasped her wrist tenderly. “Perhaps—” I began, incapable of ignoring the line about her losing energy. Incapable of ignoring much, frankly. Once upon a time, I’d had such a one-track mind. Once upon a time, I’d done precisely what I needed to stay out of my brother’s grip. Lisbeth McQuarrie had come along and ruined that singular focus. And in its wake was this confusing mess. When I wasn’t focusing too much on my beating heart, my attention was stolen by her every movement or breath.

  She looked at me. She arched an eyebrow. How was it that she could always know what I was thinking?

  “If you send me away,” she said quickly, “I’ll simply find another entrance and come at it from that direction. You have two options, Winchester Stone. You either have me by your side, or you have me behind as I follow you secretly. Which would you prefer it to be?”

  My cheeks wobbled in and out in a strange movement. I wasn’t entirely sure what they were trying to do. Stop me from speaking my mind? Maybe. And what was on my mind? Why… your guess is as good as mine.

  Where did I want Lisbeth McQuarrie? If you’d asked me that only recently, I would’ve told you I wanted her in jail. Preferably far away from me so I could never hear her irritating, strident tones again. Now… there was really only one clear answer, wasn’t there?

  I provided that answer with an action, not words. With my grip still tenderly clasped around her wrist, I pulled her forward. And indeed, the entrance to the catacombs was nearby. Or should I say one of the entrances to the catacombs?

  Just like many of the secret ritual rooms of this city, the catacombs had been built upon one another for centuries. And many of them had been crafted by magical hands. It made for a mazelike mess of roughly hewn dirt corridors, though some, if crafted by wizards, were startlingly complex and clean. And I was digressing.

  Even though I now had her in hand, my stomach beat hard against my torso wall. For I still needed to lead her into a trap.

  She marveled at the entrance to the catacombs.

  Perhaps she had never gone inside, after all?

  “I’ve never come to a door like this. I usually enter at the edge of the city. Fewer prying eyes,” she said knowingly.

  She fidgeted out of my grip. I honestly tried to keep a hold of her. But that seemed irrelevant. Because Lisbeth McQuarrie knew exactly when to turn and pivot and slip on past.

  At least I could be comforted by the fact she was indentured to me, and regardless of how far she ever got, she would return. Or perhaps, I would return to her. For I was the one who darted in close as, competently, she opened the magical lock with a muttered word and slipped inside.

  “We must be careful from this juncture onward. Remember what this is,” I counseled her.

  She twisted her head and looked up at me from underneath a hard line of eyebrows. It suggested whatever would be waiting for Lisbeth, it ought to get out of her way and not the other way around. And that, why, despite the situation, that brought a flicker of a smile to my mouth. It pressed in hard. It reminded me of how I’d found the strength to go against my brother only three hours ago.

  “Don’t be like that, Winchester. There’s danger everywhere. It lurks in every single corner of this city,” she smartly dropped her voice so her tone could not carry. “And the longer we wait, the thicker it becomes. So come, my good fellow. There’s much to do.”

  … My good fellow? While that was… interesting, it was nowhere near as interesting as when she leaned over, grasped my own wrist tenderly, and pulled me on after her.

  I smiled. A slow movement, it felt like I was melting ice. It slipped along my lips, imprinted itself on my face, and would remain for as long as it could.

  Lisbeth carefully closed the door behind her. She surreptitiously slid her gaze around as if looking for spies in the metal, then rushed past me. She had her skirts in one hand. She muttered, “What treacherous clothing. Why does the male race seem intent on making everything harder for women?”

  “The dress you are wearing is quite—” I began, about to tell her it was stunning. And it made her look, oh, never mind.

  She glanced at me. “It’s almost impossible to run and flip and punch and kick in clothes like this. But you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

  I crossed my arms. “Kick? And what, pray tell, would a woman like you be kicking?”

  She chuckled. Warm and engaging, if I’d heard it only several hours ago, it would have simply activated my ire. Now it activated something else. This storm of prickling energy that raced across my stomach, shot up into my teeth, and made my lips feel… let’s just put it this way – strange.

  “You will remain there. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She darted out of sight around one of the many tight corners ahead of us.

  “Lisbeth,” I roared, having quite forgotten her unique ability to disappear in the blink of an eye. But I shouldn’t have cared. I ran around a corner only to realize she was long gone, but soon enough she strode back into view. And she had… ludicrously fashioned herself a pair of trousers with a very long strand of ribbon.

  The fabric was bunched up around her hips, and I couldn’t say I would’ve liked to wear such trousers myself, but it was still, “Inappropriate—” I began.

  “We’re battling the palace, devilish dark fiends, and who knows what else. Come along, Winchester. We don’t have the time. Someone must save this kingdom.”

  I suppose they did have to. But I was back to thinking it would’ve been preferable to save it with anyone but Lisbeth McQuarrie.

  The catacombs, as always, were dank and dark. Nothing about them was inviting. It was the exact opposite. The feeling in the air was dense and terrifying. Though of course wizards didn’t think this way, the energy of this area was too stagnant. That happened when you were underground, away from people moving about their daily lives, getting born, dying, and generally living rambunctiously and quickly. As I strode through the musty air, it felt like no one had been down here in centuries.

  Until, of course, Lisbeth, with her fine senses, stopped, threw up her fist, and asked me to pause.

  “What is it?” I hissed. “We are nowhere near the ritual room.”

  “But something is near us,” she said in a quiet whisper.

  I straightened. When I couldn’t hear anything – when the tunnel seemed to be just as it had always appeared – I went to growl. Lisbeth, of course, wouldn’t let me.