I look at Myles. He shrugs. “If I ever what?”
“If ever nothing. Come. Sit.” She pokes me into a wood chair beside the table in the dim, smelly room and places my hands on the armrests. “Hold still.” The old lady smiles that eerie smile and walks over to a row of dusty wooden chests covering the wall of shelves. They look warped. As if at one time something damp leaked through and bent them.
She picks three of the chests up and sets them on the table. Their hinges look rusty but they open smoothly. From the first one she takes a pair of thin metal ropes and brings them over to my wrists.
Oh litches. I rise. “This isn’t—”
“It’s for your safety,” Myles soothes.
“It’s for all our safety,” the woman says.
I don’t care what it’s for. My flesh is crawling like an oliphant’s nest. “Do it without them or I’m leaving.”
“Suit yourself and leave.” She shrugs. “Just know that the young man’s blood you hope to save, as well as his kingdom, will be on your head.”
My gaze flares at her. I sit back into the chair and glare at Myles, but he lifts his palms as if to swear it wasn’t him who fed her everything she seems to know.
“No, no. Don’t blame your friend for a witch’s second sight.”
A witch?
Of course she’s a witch.
I grit my teeth. How much else can she see with that “second sight”?
It’s a half minute before I acquiesce to her tying me with those cold ropes, and only then on the condition she leaves my ankles bound loosely. I want to be able to pull my feet through and shove my knees up so my hand can grab my knives if necessary.
She merely nods and begins lashing my wrists to the armrests. The metal bites into my skin, starting up an internal shiver.
I conjure up images of Eogan. Of the bloodied man tonight. Of the flash of fear in that young boy’s face, and the hope on the faces in Faelen a few days ago. I focus on Isobel and Eogan and on what Draewulf will do if no one can stop him. The metal keeps biting in harder.
Then the old witch is pulling out a pot from the second chest and placing it on the coals in the fireplace. Back and forth she walks, from the fire to the table, adding powdery-looking things from collections of jars and bottles and weeds crammed into more chests. She tugs a stool closer to the hearth and sits. And stirs. And hums an unearthly tune that sounds like it’s from the time of ancients.
Stir, stir, stir. Hum, hum, hum.
The smell is slow, drifting, dragging itself through the air in a green wisp to settle around Myles and me in a disgusting scent of more fish. I crinkle my nose and stare straight ahead. At her. At the pot.
Stir, stir, stir.
Is this what Myles had to go through when he came years ago? Drink fish-smelling stew? I look at him and smirk. I wonder if he threw it up.
Stir, stir, stir. More humming. More stirring.
I swear hours go by with Myles and me just sitting there, waiting and watching as she stirs.
Myles yawns and polishes his hair until, eventually, he’s apparently satisfied with his appearance and nearly passes out on the table.
A short while longer and suddenly the woman hops up from her seat with an exclamation. She shoves the pot in my face. “Here. Sniff.”
I careen away with a gag. “Is that what I need to drink?”
She jerks it back and huffs. “You? Of course not. It’s my tea. But don’t it smell good?” She settles the pot on the table and spoons out some of its liquid into her teacup. Takes a sip and smacks her lips. “Mmm. That’s the thing right there.”
I raise a brow at Myles. He shrugs, looking more frumpy and frazzled than I think I’ve ever seen him, with a patch of his dark hair actually out of place and his sly eyes sagging heavily.
I turn back to the witch. “Are we . . . going to be here much longer? Just curious,” I rush to add.
She slurps her tea, louder this time, and eyes me. “This ability you’re wanting . . .” She juts her chin toward Myles. “Is half-breed boy going to help you practice using it?”
I nod.
“Good, good,” she says more to herself. “Like I said—piece of cream using your new abilities. But just in case, you’ll need someone to keep an eye on you for a bit so you don’t accidentally kill everyone.”
Lovely. “Is there anything else I should know?”
The woman sets her cup on the table and stands on her tiptoes to open the third chest. It creaks as she pries the lid. “Only that if you’re hoping to use the ability on that boy . . .” She turns to me as if to ensure I’m staring right at her, listening. Her smooth voice grows rough, firm. “Don’t wait much longer.” She flips back to the chest and pulls out a clear bottle with a cork stopped into it and then walks to one of the shelves to fetch another mug.