Page 25 of The Musician and the Monster

Ceridwen’s eyes turned glassy. Her nose wrinkled before she sniffed, almost like she was on the verge of tears. Did she worry he’d send her away if she couldn’t play for him anymore? His lips thinned. Most likely. He didn’t have the best of reputations, and that was the base of their arrangement. Though as much as he valued her music, he’d come to appreciate his time with her just as much.

The music, though… Heneededthat. His success depended on whatever strange magic held within her song calmed the darkness within him. At least he had a solution, even if it was one he hoped not to use.

“I can help you,” he said.

Ceridwen gasped as he withdrew a thin blade from a hidden sheath within his coat. The fine silver weapon was no bigger than a sewing needle, but all he needed for this purpose. He pulled free one glove and then the other, fighting the burn of embarrassment rising to his face as she looked at his scarred hands.

There would be questions after this. So many more than he wanted to answer, but he couldn’t leave her in pain, much less unable to play.

“Hold still.”

Ceridwen stiffened, drawing back from him as he ran the tiny dagger across his palm, leaving a red trail in its wake. Drystan set the blade aside on his gloves before dipping a finger in the blood rising to the surface of his cut. “Magic requires blood and shape,” he told her, trying to give the basest of explanations about what was to come.

“Blood and shape?” she echoed, her voice warbling.

“Don’t move,” he ordered. “Give me your wrist.”

Hesitantly, she held out her wrist to him, though he didn’t miss the slight shake in her limbs that likely wasn’t all from the morning chill. Drystan wasted no time before he set to work on her wrist, drawing shapes in blood upon her arm and mumbling under his breath.

Once, twice, three times, he made the pattern. Tingling warmth spread through his hand, seeping down from his finger onto her skin. The sharp intake of breath said she felt it, too, though she managed to hold still for him.

At the completion of the spell, the blood soaked into her skin, vanishing as if it had never been.

The working complete, Drystan pulled a cloth from his pocket and wrapped it around his wound to stop the bleeding. “How does it feel?”

She blinked, opening and closing her lips in silence before finally she said, “That’s where your scars come from.”

“Some of them,” he admitted. The ones on his hands anyway. He supposed now he might not need to hide them from her, assuming she didn’t decide to stare at them.

“And your wrist?” he asked.

A small smile pulled at her lips. “So much better. It’s a miracle. Like I never fell at all. But you…” Her gaze dipped to his marred skin, and he fought the urge to hide. “You cut yourself for me.”

The wonder in her voice did something funny to his heart. Even so, he commanded, “You can’t tell anyone.”

Her brows wrinkled. “But why—”

“Not how it works anyway. Those of us skilled in the arts can use blood and shape, combined with our will and sometimes words, to cast magical spells. But you knew that, or at least the magic part. The means of it… Well, the nobility, the royals especially, don’t like for it to be shared.”

She pursed her lips. “Why guard it so? It’s not like we commoners can use magic anyway.”

“Even so, the punishment for sharing such knowledge can be quite severe.” He had enough troubles on his shoulders as it was. Any more and the king might kill him rather than allow him back at court. Funny, though, that she would be curious rather than disgusted. “The blood didn’t bother you?”

She dropped her gaze, a small shiver racing through her features, but she said, “Not really.”

Perhaps it had, and she tried to put on a brave front.

Drystan rose to his feet and helped Ceridwen up, inquiring after any other injuries. Satisfied that she was well, he returned to his original purpose in seeking her out that morning.

“Perhaps I could offer you a tour of the greenhouse?” he asked.

“You like flowers?” A half smile twitched on her lips.

“All plants, actually. But I am particularly fond of the difficult ones.” He pulled a glove over his injured hand, the soft leather tight over the makeshift bandage underneath. It would do for now. “Does that surprise you?”

“A noble interested in gardening.” She looped her arm through his offered one, drawing close enough for him to catch the light floral scent clinging to her hair. “A most fascinating discovery.”

They entered the greenhouse together, traversing the rows and sections of plants.

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