Page 106 of A Resistance of Witches

Ursula stepped forward. “Would you like me to dispose of these two, Mistress?”

Sybil looked down at the two prone bodies, considering them dispassionately. “No. We’ll bring them with us.”

Ursula frowned. “Grand Mistress, with respect—” Sybil turned her cold, blue stare on Ursula, the ice in her gaze so alien that, for a moment, Lydia hardly recognized her. Ursula lowered her eyes. “Yes, Grand Mistress.”

Rebecca and Henry were dragged to their feet. Rebecca’s head still hung limply from her shoulders, but Henry was awake now, staring at Lydia with panic in his eyes. He looked like he was about to speak, but then the metallic smell filled the barn once again, and Rebecca and Henry flickered out of sight, along with the witches who held them.

Ursula and Ingrid set about tending to their fallen sisters, leaving Sybil and Lydia alone together. Lydia studied Sybil’s face, searching for some clue, some sign that the woman she had known for so many years had been a fabrication, but the warmth had returned to Sybil’s eyes, and she stared back with the same motherly affection Lydia had always known. Somehow, that only made the betrayal more painful.

“Lydia, darling,” Sybil said after a moment. “Please listen to me. This doesn’t need to be horrible. Are you going to give me trouble?”

Lydia, still deprived of the use of her tongue, held Sybil squarely in her gaze and nodded.

Sybil pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Very well.” She stepped close to Lydia and, very gently, reached out and smoothed her dark curls with her fingertips.

“Slaepna fae.”

Lydia tried to stay awake, but the darkness took her just the same.

Twenty-Nine

Lydia woke to the smell of snow.

Early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, clean and sharp and bright. The bed where she lay was heavy with blankets. The room was cavernous, the walls lined with gleaming carved wood panels that reflected the light.

She sat up and went to the window. Mountains loomed all around her, their white caps reflecting the morning light so brightly it was almost painful. A carpet of mist stretched across the landscape like an ocean, soft peaks undulating like waves in the distance. Frost etched intricate patterns on the windowpane like lace. When she looked to the right, she saw pristine stone walls and towering spires. She was in a gleaming white castle, like a kidnapped princess in a fairy tale.

Her hair was damp, and her clothing had been removed and replaced with a long satin nightgown the color of cream. She shuddered at the knowledge that one of these women had bathed and dressed her while she’d slept. Her own clothes lay neatly folded on a chair against thewall. In the wardrobe, a dozen dresses hung side by side, creating a lush rainbow of saturated jewel tones in cotton, silk, and cashmere. Lydia didn’t need to try them on to know that each one had been made to her exact measurements. She selected the most subdued of her options—a simple, long-sleeved dress in a deep plum hue—and got dressed.

The silence in the room was so complete it became its own kind of sound. Lydia could hear her breathing, the shifting of fabric across her skin. At times she was sure she could hear her own pulse. It was that silence that first made her suspect all was not quite as it seemed.

She closed her eyes and thought of Evelyn. She would be worrying herself sick by now. Lydia could summon her face without difficulty, her rough hands, her warm, cluttered kitchen. She wanted to go to her, but try as she might, she could not seem to leave her body. She tried again, this time picturing Henry’s face in her mind’s eye, then Rebecca, then Fiona. Nothing happened. The magic felt dull inside her body, the silence growing like a moat all around her.

She stood and walked the perimeter of the room, tracing the carvings on the walls with her fingertips. The amber-colored wood seemed to vibrate under her hand. Finally, it dawned on her—the carvings were not decorative at all. The walls had been etched with one enormous sigil, encircling the room like a snake. It was a binding, designed to keep anyone inside from performing magic. The realization made her feel claustrophobic, and the unnatural silence picked up a sinister tone. The only break in the quiet was the ever-present hum of theGrimorium Bellum, which sat on a marble-topped table in a corner of the room. Lydia placed her hand on the book, and the energy seemed to rise up to meet her, like a cat wanting to be stroked. Even the book seemed tamer beneath the weight of the sigil, but no less seductive. She forced herself to back away.

A sound broke through the quiet, making her jump. A door opened, one she hadn’t seen before, the serpentine carvings blending perfectly into the surrounding panels. Sybil appeared in the doorway, and thepanel closed softly behind her a moment later. She looked so ordinary to Lydia, so out of place surrounded by all this opulence.

“You’re angry.” Sybil pursed her lips, and Lydia hated her for it, the condescension. “You can speak now, you know. If you want to.”

“What could I possibly have to say to you?”

“I’m sure you have questions.” Sybil smiled sweetly. It made Lydia want to slap her.

“Why?” said Lydia.

“Why what, darling?”

A single bark of disbelief erupted from Lydia’s chest. “Why?Why have you betrayed your coven? Your country?”

“I promise you, I’ve done no such thing.” She took a step forward. Lydia stepped back. Sybil gave a bemused chuckle. “Darling—”

“Never call me that again,” Lydia said sharply. Sybil looked genuinely hurt.

“Lydia—”

Lydia cut her off. “Did you have Isadora killed?”

There was a long silence. Sybil’s chin trembled. She nodded.

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