Page 60 of Summer of Sacrifice

• A jar of moonwater

• Dried nettle

• Twine

Magic aiding her in a glow of yellows and golds, Seleste crushed the crystals with her granite pestle, slipping their shards into the glass jar of moonwater. Then, she added all of the dried herbs to her mortar and crushed them, too, with much greater ease. Those she added to the jar as well. Lastly, and with a knot of dread knitting together low in her belly, Seleste prepared to add the final ingredient. The blood.

It was tricky, though. She would need to separate Chresedia’s minuscule amount from Laurent’s blood, or her witchery would be useless. All the spell called for was a drop. Closing her eyes, Seleste felt around with a tendril of her magic, looking for anything unfamiliar. Anything like the slick, oily magic Sorscha and Aggie had found within the vats of draught in the Autumn. After trying for what felt like ages, Seleste sighed. It was no use.

But she knew precisely who could help.

Arielle was standing over a patient in the healing abbey when Seleste appeared next to her. The girl jumped half out of her skin, yelping even though Seleste had not made a peep.

“You do realise, despite my gift, something like appearing out of thin air is still startling for someone like me?”

There was a clip to Arielle’s tone, but what she was doing caused Seleste to smile, driving some of her nerves and murky memories away. “Yes, and I do apologise for that, but I see you took my advice. You’re helping with the patients.”

Arielle lifted her hands from the man she was aiding and gestured for Seleste to follow her out into the corridor where no one could overhear their conversation.

Arielle said, “When Asa doesn’t have me in the catacombs listening, as he calls it, to the relics, yes. Gaius vouched for my abilities, and Lena let me give it a go.” A blush licked up her neck and she turned almost bashful.

That was the first thing Seleste had noticed about Arielle—that she was as fiery as they came but softer than she’d ever want anyone to know.

“That is wonderful, Arielle.” She took the girl’s shoulders in her hands, squeezing them affectionately.

“Thank you.” Arielle straightened her skirts. “Did you come to see Sorscha? I believe she’s busy with her wild scheme of creating a dress shop here.” A slight giggle escaped her.

“Actually,” Seleste rolled the vial in her palm, “I came to see you.”

Arielle’s smile faded. “About that deviant blood in your hand?” Her head cocked to one side, listening where others would have looked. “Well, not all of it is vile. A rather small portion, actually…”

“Ah, yes. I’ve come to precisely the right place. Would you do me the great favour of helping me to separate a droplet of that blood from the rest?”

Arielle blanched. “I don’t think that is something I can do.”

Seleste cupped her shoulders again. “I’m certain you can, Arielle. Call it…an experiment. Doesn’t Gaius have an alchemical lab in this temple?” She looked around the sandstone and rock abbey that more closely resembled a fortress littered with candles.

Arielle blew an apprehensive breath past her lips. “Come along, then.”

AGATHA

Fingers clasped around her cage of crystals and her mother’s locket, Agatha ran the charms back and forth, back and forth along their chains. Grimm was pacing in front of the glowing hearth of their chambers within the Palace of Achlys. They’d been arguing about their next moves since dinner—a meal no one had touched.

Grimm insisted they needed to get to the Meadow, convene with the rest of the remaining Twelve, and retrieve all the power he’d left within them to bind Chresedia—Athania, as they were both beginning to think of her.

Agatha shook her head. They insisted Athania had been her dearest friend. But Agatha hadn’t remembered all of it yet. That was why she insisted their next move should be to return to their manor behind the palace, no matter how painful it was. There was still much to remember, to understand.

They knew now how they had bound Athania, and why, but they didn’t yet know how to stop her with finality.

Agatha watched her husband carefully. He’d called her by three different names in three different accents over the course of the evening. Only one of which she ever knew she’d once been called. Since then, he’d also begun to twitch, like there was a tick burrowing into his skin, making him itch. When he took up pacing around the time of the Witching Hour, he’d begun muttering to himself. Incoherent ramblings, broken only by fits of blinking and shuddering.

She needed to tell him all of what she’d learned at their manor. That their daughters were more entangled in everything than they ever would have wished, though she didn’t know how.

But she could say nothing to him when he was like this. They needed to leave Achlys. He was right. Their minds could only take so much…

“Grimm.” She had to call him twice before he finally turned.

“What have you done to your hair?” he asked, eyebrows knit in confusion. “It was much shorter yesterday.”

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