Page 70 of The Filigree Key

Focus, my grandmother’s voice whispered.

Only prey panics. Hawthornes are never prey, my father followed.

Wild speculation would do me no favors. My friends and I knew the risks, but there’d always been this (perhaps naïve) part of me that stoutly believed we’d succeed without the need for sacrifice simply because what we were doing was right.

But the world wasn’t fair, despite your morality, and I knew that better than most.

And yet, the world was made more bearable by the friends you made. And I had an ally in the wight, an ally who saw all the comings and goings within the castle. I’d find out about Sawyer from Gwyn.

But first things first, and second things second.

I set the hickory nuts in the cup I used to rinse my mouth out after brushing my teeth and added infusions, granules, and luna moth wings. After a good swirl and a hit of green magic, I set the cup on the flue ledge in the chimney for the second half of the layering spellwork. This would have to soak all day, maybe more since it didn’t have the help of a hearth witch’s fire.

My nerves had settled during the work, but they resurfaced as I chugged my tonic counter-potion and left my bedroom for the kitchen, hurrying my steps.

Mrs. Bilberry and the hobs were hustling and bustling as always, though a few of the woodchucks stole a moment or two to send me a searching look.

They’re wondering about Ricky.

All I could do was give them a reassuring nod: We’re working on it. Soon.

And since none gave me even a whisper that they’d seen Sawyer in the servant passageways, I had to conclude he was with Flora and the two of them were either breaking through the grate with Rose’s metal-eating glitter or they’d already done that and were exploring the tunnel system and concocting a way to release the prisoners.

To hope, not conclude, I corrected myself, heading over to feed my sourdough starter.

In its lukewarm corner by the ovens, Bruno bubbled away. The sourdough starter practically lunged for my face when I removed the cloth cover, and I had to beat it back with the wooden spoon. I thwacked what I assumed were its hands and head—ambiguous lumps of dough—and hastily threw a handful of flour at it. The dough parted with a yeasty exhale and a gurgle of glee, swallowing up the flour and slopping back into its container with a happy sigh.

Working quickly, I mixed up a slurry of flour and water, set it aglow with a flick of green magic, and poured it into Bruno’s gluttonous maw. The beastly thing was at risk of getting too big for its gallon jar, so I drew a runic containment barrier with a lump of charcoal. It was nothing as intense as the layered containment barrier I’d made to restrain the grimoire’s half-heart, but it would suffice until I could find a bigger jar.

Then I retreated from the kitchen to the great hall. To Arthur and Auggie. It was still early, the full blush of dawn not yet staining the horizon. If I was very, very lucky, the Stag Man would still be in his room on the far side of the castle, sleeping off the hunt and the tense relations with the Brotherhood.

The whole castle had heard Ossian’s return late last night, the gate bursting open and an animalistic roar. He was haggard and furious and smelled disgusting. And, it seemed, more convinced than he’d been that afternoon that someone was working against him to keep Wystan free and clear.

And if the Stag Man hated one thing above everything else, it was being denied.

No matter how he raged, the Brotherhood would not admit any wrongdoing. They took their beratement, his suspicion, even his violence, without retaliation, all standing in a single line of solidarity in the great hall. When one fell from a strike, no one moved to help them.

The only one exempt from his rage was Shane, the Brother standing in the gloom beside the dais with only his faelight eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Carissa received the worst of the Stag Man’s wrath for her two strikes of “incompetence,” earning her two fractured legs that Ossian took his time about breaking. While her Brothers flinched with her every scream, they remained standing still as stone statues.

Only the grizzly bear protested, rising and bellowing at the savagery before him. He earned himself a lash across the face for that, his blood flecking across the bay windows and paling in the light of the crescent moon.

While I had no love in my heart for any of the Brothers, I still shook where I hid and watched from the side door. The door handle started to rattle in my grip. With a gasp, I yanked my hand away so the sound wouldn’t reveal me, but any noise was smothered by Carissa’s pain.

When the Stag Man was finished, he removed his glamour and clomped up the steps to his throne. There, he took to his gilded seat and sprawled with the languid posture of a male who knew he was the most powerful one in the room and didn’t need to put on airs to prove it to himself or anyone else.

A single pound of his fist against the gold-and-ebony armrest signaled the start of the supplication process.

Alec was first, his body rigid with tension as he came forward and knelt to kiss the Stag Man’s hoof. Ossian dismissed him with a wave of his hand to return to the line.

A red-haired Brother wearing a leather harness full of throwing knives was next, repeating the same show of fealty. Then he hesitated, wondering why the Stag Man didn’t release him.

“Open your shirt.” The Stag Man’s voice was soft and amicable, as if he was asking for something as simple as passing the butter dish.

As the Brother’s hands went to the laces of his tunic, he glanced over his shoulder at Alec.

“Do not look to him!” the Stag Man exploded. “Do not forget who your true master is, Patrick!”