Ignoring Margaret’s muttered complaints, Rylan spoke, his words measured and careful.
“I see how staying out of the light is a defense—a necessary defense—but I do not think it much of a solution. It seems to me that if a shadow is made of darkness, then the way to battle it may be with light.”
“That is the most painful bit of the curse,” Anne agreed. “I hear the truth in your words. But light also allows the shadow to separate itself from the darkness at large. There is no weapon that can be used against it. The time it would take to discover one would be more than enough for Esme’s shadow to take her life. Speaking of which—”
Anne reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a small earthenware jar. “Margaret told me about your neck. Rub this on it, three times a day, and take plenty of eggs with your meals. It will help.”
Esme took the jar with a grateful nod. “Margaret has your payment.”
Margaret handed the coin over grudgingly, with a pointed glance at her injured foot. Anne grinned, her smile more holes than teeth. “Enough for some food and something to drink. I think I may stay awhile. It has been so long since there was anything for me to celebrate. . . . Sir . . . ?”
“Rylan of Sedgewick.” He bowed.
“Sir Rylan, then. Will you walk an old woman to the fire?”
Rylan glanced at Esme. His eyes were forlorn. She answered him with a determined stare.
Things would not end here. Not like this. She’d had a sip of the possible and she wasn’t about to hand the glass back now.
“I will watch for you,” he said.
“I hope so,” she said.
“Oi!” The guard who had accosted them at the door let out a shout that cut through the din of the celebration as he lurched toward them, grabbing a torch that had been jammed into the ground. “Are ye ready to give me that dance?”
Margaret made a noise that was caught between a gasp and a retch.
Esme froze. She couldn’t run past the guard and get back to the safety of her tower. Behind her, the celebration raged, with torches and bonfires pockmarking the field. She was trapped.
“Douse that torch! At once!” Margaret commanded.
It did no good.
The guard was so drunk he couldn’t halt his own momentum. He swayed so close to Esme that she was cuffed tight in the circle of torchlight. Before she could shut her eyes against the glare, Esme felt a set of hands jerk her head back and rip off the cloak hood and wimple that hid her bruised neck. She saw nothing but stars—she felt nothing but the night air on the exposed skin of her throat.
Margaret screamed. She grabbed Esme’s arm and dragged her out of the light. Rylan wrapped his arms around the half-mast guard and tossed him back toward the castle.
But it was too late.
The commotion had attracted the crowd’s attention, and before Esme’s feet had moved, they were surrounded by a circle of people, each of them bearing some sort of light.
Esme’s shadow leapt back into existence, solid as an anvil and just as black. It wrapped an arm around her neck, and her already tender windpipe folded like a bellows.
The gasping, shouting ring of spectators spread and deepened. In some places, it was nearly a solid wall of torch fire and lamplight. There was no way out. No way through.
A haze of sparkles appeared as Esme tried to draw breath and failed. Through the glitter, she saw Rylan draw his sword. The blade reflected the flames that surrounded them. Instead of gleaming metal, a column of fire leapt from the golden hilt. Hope rose in Esme. Maybe the light in his sword was enough to slay the shadow and break the curse.
Rylan slashed at the shadow, but the blade passed right through. The hope that had flared in her so suddenly dimmed, and her vision narrowed as death crept into her.
Words from the night danced through her head. Something Rylan had said . . . something besides fighting darkness with light . . . her knees buckled beneath her and Esme tumbled to the ground. Her shadow fell with her, loosening its hold on her neck just long enough for Esme to draw a single, burning breath.
The sweet heat of the air swept through her, and she remembered the thought she’d been seeking.
The right weapon in the right hands has its own kind of magic.
She looked up at Rylan, who stood with his sword pointed at the pressing crowd as he shouted at them to get back.
“Sir Rylan!” Esme croaked as the shadow’s arm found its favored place against the soft flesh of her neck. In spite of the breathlessness of her voice, he heard her.
He spun away from the crowd, facing Esme with a look of powerless horror.
She could no longer speak, nor could she breathe. She held out a hand, staring hard at his sword.
If it was foolishness, so be it, but one way or another, the curse would be broken in the next moments.
Without hesitating, Rylan turned the point of the sword toward himself, offering Esme the hilt. With her arms weakened, the weapon was so heavy that she could barely lift it. The point dragged along the ground and, as the blade drew level with her eyes, Esme could see the shadow reflected in it, its features growing more distinct as her own life waned.
With the last of her strength, Esme lifted the sword’s hilt above her head, moving the blade so that it would swing behind her like a pendulum. A susurration swept across her hearing, like a flock of startled birds taking flight. The sword slipped from Esme’s grip and thudded to the ground.
A cloak of icy blackness settled over her, and as her vision waned, Esme glanced up at the distant stars and begged forgiveness as the last of the world slid from her view.
The darkness that followed was pure and limitless.
Vaguely, she heard Anne’s voice. “Wake up, child.”
Wake up?
Her throat tore and then tore again, as her breath hissed in and out. Esme’s eyes fluttered open and she mewled in surprise at the bedclothes that scratched against her skin.
She was back inside the tower.
Anne and Margaret huddled over her.
“Is it—is she?” Margaret’s breath hitched so badly that she couldn’t finish her questions.
Anne peered into Esme’s eyes. Still too weak and stunned to move, Esme stared back. Anne glanced at Margaret.
“Lift her shoulders a bit and bring that torch just a bit closer. Carefully, now. Sir Rylan, be at the ready.”
Esme winced as Margaret’s arm slid beneath her, propping her up. Anne bent, studying the sheets beneath Esme, but Esme’s attention was fixed elsewhere. Near the foot of the bed knelt Rylan, a mixture of pride and surprise written on his face. His sword was still unsheathed and his hand wrapped around the shimmering hilt.
Something was different. The blade—the shining, fiery blade was dull as the stone of the tower walls and just as dark.
“It’s gone,” Anne announced. “Look.” She pointed beneath Esme, to the spot where the torchlight should have cast her shadow. “The torchlight casts my shadow. Sir Rylan has one. You do, too,” she said to Margaret. “But Esme’s is gone.”
Margaret gasped.
The news shook her and Esme reached out her hands, looking for something—anything—solid to hold on to. Rylan sheathed his sword in an instant and moved to Esme’s side, scooping her weakened body into his arms. Margaret gasped, but Esme couldn’t imagine that this scandal would outshine the breaking of her curse. Moreover, she didn’t want him to put her down. The feel of his hands pressing against her through her clothes was delicious, even in her fragile state. No man had ever held her like this. Surreptitiously, as though he were adjusting her in his arms, he laid his cheek against her forehead, and his bright auburn hair swept against her skin, making her shiver gladly.
Margaret stepped closer, bringing the dancing light of the torch with her. Instinctively, Esme coiled, but then the sweetness of the glow against her skin reminded her that she had nothing to fear. She felt herself bubbling up—stretching and strengthening with the relief of finally, finally being illuminated.