Page 161 of Spark of Sorcery
“She won’t,” I promise. “I’ll be watching her.”
“But you just said–”
“I’ll keep her safe.”
He examines my face. Somewhere in the depths of these dungeons water drips rhythmically and a door rattles.
“Last time, someone manipulated the trial,” he says, “she was in that maze for two hours.”
“I know.”
“Were you watching over her then too?”
“I … yes,” I admit. “But this time is different. This time I’ll be on the look out for things that aren’t quite right. This time I’ll be expecting an attack – even if I find it unlikely that individual will strike again.”
Beaufort blows out air through his teeth.
“There isn’t a way to get her out of doing the trial?”
I look him in the eye. His irises are a pale silver color that catches the light like lightning streaking across the sky. “You tell me.”
He pauses. Then shakes his head. “No exceptions.”
“Yeah,” I say, “no exceptions.”
When he’s gone, I walk over to the shelves at the back of my classroom and lift down the small bottle I’ve hidden behind a set of books.
I hold the little bottle up to my face, peering through the glass at the contents. The concoction inside has been brewing for a week now, slowly changing from a clear liquid to a dark brown sludge.
I think it’s ready.
I yank off the stopper and give it a sniff anyway. The acidic aroma catches in the back of my throat and I cough, push the stopper back into the neck and take it over to my desk.
The piece of paper Briony gave me lies flat on the surface. Although I’ve tried several ways to remove the black bars censoring the words, it remains as bold as ever, the words underneath still completely hidden.
However, tonight might be my lucky night. I hope so because I’ve scoured my books for other methods of removing the dark magic that marks this page and this is the only one left to try.
The potion itself took me an evening to combine – and that was after I’d spent two days gathering up the unusual ingredients. It’s been brewing for a week.
I sit at my desk and arrange the implements I needneatly alongside the piece of paper. A fine paint brush. A muslin cloth. A scalpel. Tweezers. Blotting paper.
I remove the stopper once again and the acidic smell swims into the air, a fine curl of dark mist rising from the bottle’s neck. I dip the paint brush into the sludge and then carefully apply it to the dark mark on the page.
Almost immediately, there’s a hissing sound as if the dark mark itself is hissing at me. The sound reminds me of her – fangs bared, eyes cruel – and for a moment, I wonder if she was the one who censored these passages. The hissing noise is accompanied by bright sparks and vibrant red smoke that shoots from the page.
I halt. Has it worked? Or have I messed this up? Damaged the paper, removing the hidden words forever?
I take the cloth and dab at the page. The hissing sound fades, the smoke dies away.
I squint at the page. A piece of black – no bigger than a full stop has vanished and under it the partial line of a letter.
It worked.
Dipping my paintbrush back into the bottle, I repeat the action – pausing when the hissing and sparks start again, blotting it.
I do this over and over again. Not willing to go too quickly in case I damage the fragile piece of paper. It’s painstaking and dull. If I weren’t so eager to learn what lies underneath, I’d push the paper to one side and resume again tomorrow. But gradually letters appear. One. Then another. And another. Then a word. Two. Three. Half a sentence. A complete one. Until finally, all the black markings are gone from the page, lifted as if they never existed at all and the writing beneath is revealed as it must once have been laid out across the page.
I stopper the bottle, placing it in my desk drawer. Then I wipe the paintbrush clean with the cloth and place those away too.
