The witch’s expression darkened. “He’ll never let you have it, not even for a moment.”
Selia’s grip on her friend’s hands tightened. “Let me handle him when he gets here.”
“I don’t know . . .”
Selia’s eyes narrowed. “I know it’s been a very long time, but I feel I must mention the favor you owe me. A favor you promised to repay in full.”
Dariah looked down at the floor.
Magnus watched, barely breathing. The witch slowly looked up again, her face pale. She nodded with a small jerk of her head. “It will take time to draw him here.”
“He has three days. Will that be a problem?”
The witch’s jaw tensed as she rose to her feet. “No.”
“Thank you.” Selia stood and kissed Dariah on both of her cheeks. “I knew you would help me.”
The smile of their greeting was now nothing more than a memory. “I will alert you the moment he arrives.”
Dariah didn’t linger—with a last look at Selia and Magnus, she left the inn.
“Well,” Magnus said after all had gone silent again. “That must have been quite the favor you did for your friend.”
“It was.” Selia glanced at Magnus, a small smile on her lips. “I shall now check on your father. His health is my only concern right now. Soon, when my magic is restored and he is well again, we can face the other obstacles that stand in our way.”
“I will strive for patience,” Magnus said, knowing he would surely fail at this.
By now, night had fallen, and Magnus retired to his small private room. It had a full-size bed rather than the unacceptable cots in the communal sleeping area down the hall. The window gave him a second-floor view of the street outside, lit with lanterns and, even after nightfall, busy with citizens and visitors to the city.
There was a soft knock at his door. “Enter,” Magnus said, knowing it could only be one of the four people with whom he’d traveled to Paelsia.
The door opened slowly, and as the visitor revealed herself, Magnus’s heart began to thud hard against his chest. Cleo peered in at him.
He stood up and met her in the doorway. “My grandmother’s friend was here.”
“Already?” Her brows raised. “And?”
“And . . .” He shook his head. “It seems that we are forced to wait here for three days.”
“She can get the bloodstone, though?”
“Yes,” Magnus replied. “I’ve only just been reunited with my grandmother, but she strikes me as the sort of woman who can get pretty much anything she wants.”
“And this is all so that this magical stone will save your father’s life.” Cleo said this without emotion, but a hardness had formed behind her aquamarine eyes.
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Magnus said, agreeing with what was left unspoken. “But this must be a necessary measure on the way to our ultimate goal.”
“Finding Lucia.”
“Yes. And breaking your curse.”
She nodded. “I suppose there’s no other way.”
He watched her carefully. “Was it only information you came to my room seeking, or is there something else you require this evening?”
Cleo raised her chin so she could look him directly in his eyes. “Actually, I need your help.”
“With what?”
“All the riding we’ve been doing. It’s done horrific things to my hair.”
Magnus raised a brow. “And . . . you came here needing my help to chop it all off so it’s no longer a problem?”
“As if you’d allow that.” She grinned. “You’re obsessed with my hair.”
“I’d hardly call it an obsession.” He twisted a lock of the warm golden silk around his finger. “More like an often painful distraction.”
“I apologize for your suffering. But you will not be cutting my hair, tonight or ever. The innkeeper’s wife was kind enough to give me this.” She presented him with a silver-handled hairbrush.
He took it from her, looking at it quizzically. “You want me to . . . ?”
Cleo nodded. “Brush my hair.”
Just the thought of it was ludicrous. “Now that I’m forced to dress as a common Paelsian, you mistake me for your servant?”
She shot him a determined look. “It’s not as if I can ask Milo or Enzo . . . or, for goddess’s sake, your father or grandmother to help me.”
“What about the innkeeper’s wife?”
“Fine.” Cleo snatched the brush back from him with a scowl. “I’ll go ask her.”
“No, no.” He let out a sigh, half-amused now. “I’ll help.”
Without hesitation, she returned the brush to him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He stepped aside to make way for her. She walked in, sat on the end of his cot, and looked at him expectantly. “Close the door,” she said.
“Not a good idea.” Magnus left the door ajar and slowly came to sit behind her. Awkwardly and with great trepidation, as if about to skin and clean an animal for the first time, he held the delicate brush up to her hair. “I’ve never done this before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
What a ridiculous sight it must have been: Magnus Damora, son of the King of Blood, brushing a young woman’s hair at her request.