Galinor takes my shoulders in his hands, angling me so I face him. “Humans aren’t gifted with magic. When we call on it, it comes from dark, forbidden places. Magic twists the truth we desire. It’s a dark force, whispering beautiful lies, and nothing useful comes from it. We’ll find Dimitri on our own.”
“What about the changeling stone, Galinor?” I glance over my shoulder, still feeling the pull toward the fortuneteller. “Am I evil for using it? Is my father evil for wearing it all those years?”
Galinor eyes soften. “The changeling stone is fairy magic. Magic is their gift, and they can share it with whomever they wish. Dragons, fairies, unicorns, ancient gimlies—their magic isn’t evil. They don’t draw it from the dark. It’s simply a part of them.”
I’m very aware of how close we are, of how near his face is to mine. I hold my breath, wondering what I would do if he leaned forward.
As though Galinor doesn’t feel the same spark, he takes a step back, dropping his hands from my shoulders.
“Are you hungry?” He nods toward the center of the square. Already, delicious, sugary aromas drift from bakery carts.
I nod and step away, pushing my disappointment behind me—where it belongs. I can dwell on it later.
Galinor offers his arm, his eyebrows raised. “Anwen?”
I meet his eyes, and my heart stutters when I slide my fingers over his sleeve. Tucked next to him, we continue to the center of Crayhope.
It’sdark when I wake, not yet morning. Still sound asleep, Marigold softly snores next to me.
Instead staying the night in Irving’s new caravan cart, we opted to pay for a room in the crowded inn. The one Marigold and I were given is barely larger than a cupboard, and I think we might have been better off in the cart.
I sit up, careful not to jostle Marigold. I peek out the shutters and peer at the night sky. The horizon is as black as pitch.
Dawn isn’t coming anytime soon.
There’s a cold chill in the air, and faint music drifts through the open window. Despite the time, the festivities are still in full swing. I drum my fingers against the windowsill, acknowledging that it would be a dangerous time to walk the streets alone.
I close the shutters and only pause a moment before slipping on my boots and tying my corset belt over my bodice. As a last-minute thought, I pull a long velvet scarf over my head and shoulders to hide my conspicuous blonde hair.
Tonight, I want to blend in with the troupe members.
Tapered candles burn in glass lanterns, and their flickering glow lights the halls. Wax pools around the bases, and the wicks threaten to snuff out soon. It must be later than I realized if the candles are that low.
The inn isn’t a beautiful one. The boards are graying, and they creak with each step I take. Threadbare rugs dot the floors in alcoves and nooks, and they too are faded and old. Our linens on the bed were clean, though, and that is what is most important.
A few old men linger in the main room. Red embers from a dying fire burn near their table where they nurse their drinks and smoke, their conversation low and somber as is fitting for the hour.
An efficient-looking barmaid, obviously used to working the night hours, wipes the long wooden counter at the back of the room. She looks up when she spots mebut only nods in greeting as I pass. Moments later, I’m out the door and entering the village square.
I shiver under my wrap, nervous. I follow the street, making my way to the fortune teller’s tent. Perhaps she’ll be asleep, and I’ll have to turn around.
The thought makes me pause. She’s most likely already retired for the night. I should go back now, slip into bed and pretend I never left.
But I move on, almost unnaturally drawn forward.
I hesitate in the street when I see the tent is still tied open. Inside, the fortune teller sits, her head bowed over her ball, with a man across from her. He seems mystified by the colored clouds swirling in the glass orb, almost as if he’s in a trance.
My stomach knots, and I chew my bottom lip, deciding this was a very bad idea. Hugging my scarf close, I turn to leave.
“Wait!” The woman turns her head toward me sharply and holds a commanding hand in the air. “Wait,” she says again, her voice softer.
I stop like a deer in the wood, too spooked to run. The fortune teller dismisses her customer, and he leaves with a strange, bemused expression on his face. He walks right past me, but his mind is too far away to even meet my eyes.
The woman waves me toward the chair opposite her ball. “Come.”
“I…I don’t think—“
“You came all this way to see me, didn’t you?”
