Magic Can Be Murder by Vivian Vande Velde

Author:Vivian Vande Velde [Velde, Vivian Vande]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 2011-11-08T16:12:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SERGEANT HALIG BOUND Nola's ankle in cloths soaked in cool rose water. It relieved some of the pain, but an icy stream would have felt even better, Nola remembered the stream by which she had stopped last night, the one near which the farmer had picked her up this morning and to which he had promised to return her—if she was waiting for him in the market by noon.

If it wasn't noon yet, it was certainly close. Too close for a lame witch who had miscalculated her own cleverness and luck.

It could be worse, she told herself.

But she would have to concentrate to think how, and she needed to spend her concentration on maintaining her spells.

Nobody had seen the shadowforms in the bucket, she reminded herself. Only Brinna knew she was a witch, and—for the moment—Brinna had no proof of this and no likelihood that anyone would believe whatever she had to say. Not that Nola could let herself relax. She was trapped in a house with four men, none of whom was likely to be any help to her at all: two who, should they begin to suspect she was a witch, had the authority to arrest her; one who was desperate enough co have just killed his father; and one who looked about to get blamed for that killing, ¡t could be worse, Nola mentally repeated: Halig could be binding her to a stake rather than nursing her swollen ankle, or Kirwyn could be standing in the doorway with a hatchet and a crazed look on his face rather than with the cup of water and bowl Galvin had sent him to fetch and the put-upon expression of one who was used to doing the ordering rather than the fetching. Alan was supposed to be helping Halig, but he was so agitated he seemed to be doing more fluttering than helping.

Galvin took the cup and bowl from Kirwyn and brought them to Nola, which increased the sourness on Kirwyn's face. As Galvin supported her so that she could rinse the taste of vomit from her mouth, Nola couldn't help but smile.

Galvin, of course, caught her at it. "What?" he asked.

Nola shook her head. "An old family story," she explained. "Apparently my mother would get sick every morning while she was carrying me, before I was born. She likes to tell how my father would stroke her hair and sing songs to comfort her. It's one of her sayings: Never underestimate someone who's willing to hold your head while you're being sick."

"Ah, well," Galvin said. He took the bowl she'd used to spic in but left her the cup, which still held water. "I don't sing."

"My mother never said my father sang well," Nola pointed out.

"Your mother sounds like a very sensible woman."

So much for any thought of intelligent conversation with him.

"I'd feel much better if I could ¡ust rest quietly," Nola told everyone, though in truth she wanted them out of there precisely so that she could sit up and pinch herself if she started to get sleepy.

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