Once I finish recounting the details, Millicent turns and looks at me, brows furrowed. “I wasn’t told all of this,” she says with a hint of irritation in her voice.
“It didn’t lead anywhere,” I reply with a shrug. “I figured it was a dead end.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “Why would someone with power, luxury, and the king’s favor willingly welcome something so dark into themselves?”
I sense a test and an answer she already knows.
“They…wouldn’t?”
“Exactly.” She sits straighter. “Not even the North promising the same luxuries would tempt someone from such a sweet position. The only better seat would be the throne itself. I think our missing people—and the allies turning against you—could be the work of Manipulators.”
The realization hits hard.
“Shit…you’re right.”
“I usually am,” she mutters, turning back to Shalla and gently squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Shalla. I won’t forget your help.”
Shalla squeezes her hand in return and then hesitates before speaking. “Millicent…if I may, what is attached to you?”
Millicent recoils as if burned, ripping her hand back like she’s been bitten by a viper.
“Please,” Shalla soothes, lifting her palms in peace. “I don’t mean to intrude. I’ve practiced curse work for nearly five centuries. I can feel them when they’re close. And I feel something; it’s carved into your skin.”
Millicent shifts in my lap, pushing to rise, but I tighten my grip on her hips, keeping her seated. I need to hear this.
Shalla, sensing the shift, relents. She offers a gentle smile. “No worry, child. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She rises just as the doors to the library open again. The twin witchlings return, taking her hands silently. “We’re here to assist with whatever needs the Le Strange coven requires,” she says softly. “Tell Arcadia I said hello.”
With that, she exits, the doors closing behind her.
And we’re alone again.
I finally release Millicent, allowing her to leap from my lap.
“Well, that was helpful,” I sigh, rising from the chair.
“Hey!” I call as she storms toward the exit. I jog after her, reaching out to catch her wrist and tugging her back toward me. “Are we just storming out now? Not even going to try our hand at some of these texts?”
The moment my fingers touch her skin, I feel her magic spike—wild, unsettled.
“Millicent?” I murmur, but she doesn’t hear me. Her eyes are looking past me, like I’m not there.
If I were myself, I’d shake her—rattle the storm out of her—but I’m Tyran now. Tyran is softer.
So, I let my thumb trace soothing circles along her wrist.
“Is it…about something following you?” I ask gently, trying to not escalate her further.
She jerks her arm back, glaring. “Let me go, Tyran. I don’t need you caring about me,” she snaps.
I ignore her words and cup her cheeks instead.
“Perhaps I’m not caring about you, exactly,” I say steadily, “Maybe I’m just thinking about the mission…and how bad it’d be if a witch from another coven had a magic tantrum in their library. That’d be…inconvenient, yes?”
I nod, nudging the point home.
She exhales sharply, the fire in her eyes dimming to a stubborn pout.
