39. Morgan

I reappearat the bottom of the garden, and the wind’s whispers die down, leaving behind a deafening silence.

My heart races. The quiet is a relief, but I need to figure out a way to stop hearing these… voices. Each time, it gets more intense, more convincing.

One moment of weakness, and I might do something I’ll regret forever. Something I can never take back.

Blaze still stands halfway up the garden, gazing down at me with what looks like pride. And as I stare up at him, the moonlight reflecting off his strong features, I’m reminded about how beautiful he is. Otherworldly, as if he comes from this fantasy realm instead of the human one.

He hurries down the path without hesitation.

When he reaches the bottom, the hardness from earlier returns to his eyes.

My heart drops.

I expected this. But I still hoped that somehow, what happened between us in the garden would change something.That he’d be a step closer to forgiving me. That maybe—just maybe—he’d start to understand why I did what I did.

He says nothing.

Finally, I break the silence.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” His gaze goes over my shoulder, to the cottage behind us. “Should we just knock?”

I turn around, finally focusing on the cottage now that we’re out of the garden.

Snug and secluded, it looks like it jumped out of a storybook. Its stone walls are covered with ivy, and tufts of grass and wildflowers are growing at the edges of the roof. Smoke curls from a stone chimney, and I swear I can smell a home cooked meal coming from inside.

My stomach growls.

The pre-packaged meals have been keeping us alive, but they’re not especially substantial, especially given how much magic—and therefore how much energy—we’ve been using to survive in this place.

“Sure.” I shrug. “Knocking seems like a better approach than breaking through a window or sliding down the chimney.”

Blaze cracks a smile at that one, although it vanishes a second later.

“Want to do the honors?” He motions to the door—a solid, dark wood with iron hinges and a knocker that looks like it was forged by faeries—and motions for me to go ahead.

Lifting the knocker, I let it fall against the door three times.

The silence afterward is unnerving, and I hold my breath, debating whether to knock again.

I almost ask Blaze what our next course of action should be, but the door swings open before I can.

A woman who I know in my heart is Langwerda stands in the doorway, and she’s not at all what I expected. She’s neither old nor bent by age. Her hair, a cascade of silver, frames a face marked by wisdom and strength, and her green eyes hold the depths of someone who’s lived for far longer than I could ever imagine.

Witches on Earth aren’t immortal. But the rules of Earth were tossed out the window the moment Blaze and I crossed that bridge and entered this mystical realm.

“Come in, young travelers,” she says, and her voice is hypnotizing, drawing us closer. “You’ve journeyed far and hard, and the night grows colder.”

“Thank you.” I smile at her, since given that we’re going to be asking her for the quill, I can’t afford to do even a tiny thing that might get me on her bad side.

As we step inside, the interior of the cottage envelops us in its warmth. It’s cozy, filled with the glow of firelight and the scent of pine. Jars of herbs and roots line the shelves on the walls, and three boxes that look like treasure chests sit on the floor beneath them. The wooden table in the center is already set for three, and a cauldron bubbles over the hearth nearby.

“You knew we were coming,” I say simply.

“Please, sit.” She gestures to the table, where two bowls filled with steaming stew await us. “A hot meal after your journey will do you well.”

I hesitate and look to Blaze.

He shrugs, goes to the table, places his pack on the floor, and sits. However, he makes no move to dig into the stew.

I also put my pack on the floor and sit next to him, prepared for him to pull away, and relieved when he doesn’t.

Maybe he doesn’t hate me so much, after all.

Or maybe he’s as wary about this whole thing as I am.

The stew smells delicious, but like Blaze, I don’t dig in. I know better. Especially given the jugs of unidentified herbs lining the shelves.

Who knows what she could have put in the food?

“I knew you were coming.” The witch pours a dark, rich ale into our mugs, either not noticing or not caring that we havent tried the stew. “The winds speak, and the earth whispers. Your quest is bold, and your hearts are true.”

The winds speak.

Does she know about the wind talking to me? Does she hear it, too?

I don’t ask.

I’d rather try the possibly drugged stew than confess to hearing voices in the wind that are telling me to kill Blaze.

“You know about our quest?” I ask instead.

She raises an eyebrow in amusement. “I assume you’re not simply popping by for a social call?”

Even though I know to remain on guard, I find myself relaxing at her attempted humor.

“No.” Blaze holds her gaze, as focused as ever. “We’re here because you have something that belongs to me.”

She doesn’t flinch.

She just picks up her bowl, uses the ladle to serve herself some stew, and sits across from us.

“It’s safe.” She motions to our untouched bowls. “Although, I understand your caution.”

She uses her spoon to take her first sip, as if demonstrating it’s harmless.

I don’t budge. After all, she had served Blazes and my stew before we entered. There’s no way of knowing it came from the same batch she took hers from just now.

I’m relieved when Blaze also doesn’t give in.

“The Crimson Quill,” he continues, not allowing her to veer us off topic. “It belongs to my ancestors. You’ve been holding onto it for centuries, to keep it safe. Now, I’ve come to bring it back home with me, where it belongs.”

I have to admit—I’m impressed by his confidence. It sounds like he’s been searching for the quill for ages. I never would have guessed that a few days ago, he wanted nothing to do with magic at all.

“Yes.” The witch sits back, interested. “I’ve heard of it.”

“You have it.” He says it as a statement—not a question.

“Perhaps,” she muses, studying him, trying to figure him out. “You’re a scripter? From the Bloodscript line?”

“I am,” he confirms.

“Wonderful.” She smiles, continuing to observe him. “Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want you to show me your magic.”

He glances around the room, knitting his brows together, contemplating what to do.

“Recludam,” I say simply, bringing his attention to me. “The unlock spell. You told me about it when we were stuck in the storm. Use it on one of those boxes over there.” I point to the chests along the wall, then look back to the witch. “They’re locked?”

“They are,” she confirms.

“Perfect.” I focus on Blaze again and hold his fiery gaze, waiting for him to get started.

Thankfully, it’s not hate I find in his eyes.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was gratitude.

Finally, standing with movements both fluid and sure, he approaches the treasure chests. As he walks, the flames in the hearth dance higher. I’m not sure if the fire’s reacting to my anticipation, or to his, or to us both.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he kneels before the chest on the left, his back facing me and Langwerda.

Without a word, he takes out his penknife and brings it in front of him.

I can’t see what he’s doing now, since his back is toward us, but his quickening breath clues me in that he just used the knife to draw blood. And then, when he leans forward, hunching over the chest, it’s clear he’s inking his blood onto the lock.

“Recludam,”he murmurs.

He usually doesn’t speak the word out loud while he uses his magic.

Maybe it’s for Langwerda’s benefit. Or maybe he’s nervous. It’s tough to imagine Blaze being nervous, but there’s something about the anticipation buzzing through the room that makes the pressure on him feel like a living thing hanging in the air.

Finally, the lock clicks.

I hold my breath.

Langwerda does, too.

Then, Blaze sits back, pockets the penknife, pops off the padlock, and opens the chest.