Silver in the Bone (Silver in the Bone #1)(43)
Author: Alexandra Bracken

 

Earthy greens mingled with the animal scent of the tallow candles scattered around the room. At the far edge were two cots, but most of the space was taken up by a worktable cluttered with pots and bowls of ground herbs. It was an apothecary as much as a place of healing.

 

The back wall was lined with shelves to the low-slung roof, brimming with various baskets and glass containers. The latter’s floral shape and faint iridescence made me wonder if they were the work of the Fair Folk.

 

The space was hardly bigger than the dungeon, but in an odd way, its diminutive size was reassuring. There was no space for anyone or anything, really, to hide.

 

Which was why I was so surprised when I nearly tripped on a small figure crouched behind the worktable, fishing around in the baskets on the lower shelves.

 

“Flea!” Olwen cried, shooing her away. “You’ve already eaten the last of my dried berries—out with you!”

 

“There was more, I saw ’em!” the girl protested. She couldn’t have been more than ten by the look of her, all gangly limbs and sparrow-like bones.

 

“Those are elderberries, you little jobbernowl,” Olwen said, leaning down to meet her at eye level, “and if you eat but one of them, they’ll turn your stomach inside out and, mark my words, you will not like how your supper tastes the second time it crosses your tongue.”

 

The girl scowled, her milk-white face smudged with dirt and soot. “You’re a right grump. Don’t ye need to go down to the pools or something? Take a wee bath?”

 

Olwen narrowed her eyes, and the bright blue rings around her pupils seemed to flare in warning. I looked between her and the girl, confused.

 

“This is Fayne, better known to us as Flea,” Caitriona said, holding out a hand to the girl. Flea shot to her side, but not before giving us all a rather glorious stink eye.

 

“Who’s they?” she asked suspiciously.

 

“Who are they?” Caitriona corrected with surprising gentleness. She extracted the girl’s hand from her mouth just as Flea began to bite at her nails. “That is precisely my question.”

 

“First, though,” Olwen cut in, “who appears to be bleeding the most?” When no one immediately responded, Olwen turned to Emrys. “It’s you, I’m afraid. Sit on the cot and remove your tunic, if you please.”

 

Emrys hesitated, his gloved hands twisting. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

Olwen pulled back, confused. “I assure you, there’s no need to spare my modesty.”

 

“Oh no, I was talking about my own delicate sensibilities,” Emrys said as he lowered himself onto the stiff spine of the cot. Untying the bandage, he shrugged off his mud-caked jacket and pulled at the torn sleeve of his sweater and undershirt. “Could you just cut it?”

 

“You lose a bet and get an embarrassing tattoo or something?” Cabell asked, leaning back against a wall. Covered in grime and blood, Emrys no longer looked the part of a princeling.

 

“You know I love a bet, but, alas, no. Not all of us can be as stoic or manly a specimen as you, Lark,” Emrys said.

 

He was smiling, but there was a sharpness there I hadn’t expected. One I immediately wanted to press against, just to see what would happen.

 

“Will you at least take the gloves off?” I asked.

 

Neve swayed on her feet, falling against my shoulder. I caught her before she could drop to the floor.

 

“Neve? Are you all right?” I asked. Cabell came to her other side and helped me lower her into the room’s lone chair.

 

“’S fine,” Neve said, her head bobbing. She tried to wave away our concerns. “Just . . . tired.”

 

Olwen was there in a heartbeat. “Got a touch of the swoons from using all that magic, do you? Flea, will you put those hands to use and start a fire? Do you remember the mixture for the hot tonic?”

 

“One part cinnamon,” the girl said sullenly, “one part toad tongue—”

 

“What?” Neve asked, eyes going wide.

 

“The girl is having a laugh,” Bedivere clarified.

 

“That was unkind,” Olwen told Flea. “And you need to prove to me you’ve been studying.”

 

Flea huffed out a sigh but got to work kindling a fire and setting a small cauldron above it. She used a nearby jug to fill it with water and recited, in a petulant voice that made me instantly like her, “One part cinnamon, three parts apple—boiled fifteen minutes.”

 

“We’ve barely any of the apples left,” Caitriona protested. “The blessings of the sacred grove are not for the likes of sorceresses.”

 

“It’s really fine,” Neve said weakly. “I just need to rest.”

 

“Without a good cup of tonic, you’ll need to sleep for a fortnight to regain your strength,” Olwen told her. “We saw your light from here. That was no small magic.”

 

Caitriona scoffed and looked on the verge of saying something snippy to that, but Bedivere placed a calming hand on her shoulder.

 

“Let’s begin with how they found their way to the isle, shall we?” he suggested. “The pathways have been sealed for an age.”

 

“They’re looking for their father,” Neve said sleepily.

 

I turned to her, horror streaking through me. My mind struggled for words, any sort of lie to undo what the sorceress had just done. “No, we—we were—”

 

In a single statement, Neve had exposed our plan and blown any possible cover.

 

“Is that true?” Bedivere asked. To my surprise, he and the others looked intrigued.

 

“Yes,” I said finally. I could admit, however begrudgingly, that the best lies often bore a piece of the truth. “We think he became . . . disoriented in the mists. He may have been searching for a way here.”

 

Flea stood from the small hearth, her face alight with more than the fire’s glow as she looked to Caitriona. “Oh! There’s the—”

 

“Hush,” Caitriona told her sharply. “Don’t you have chores, Flea?”

 

“I finished ’em,” the girl shot back.

 

“What were you going to say?” I pressed. Flea’s words had made my heart skip with possibility, but now she only glared at me, retreating to stand in front of Caitriona.