Poison by Molly Cochran

Author:Molly Cochran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster/Paula Wiseman Books

CHAPTER

•

TWENTY-EIGHT

Dead days.

Every time I walked into Old Town, my heart sank at the sight of the abandoned store with the broken sign swinging in the wind. No one had seen the Emporium of Remarkable Goods except me. It had all been a glamour—the store, the versimka, even Morgan herself, I supposed. Especially Morgan.

Funny, I’d really believed she was my friend.

Some friend, huh?

And what was it those harpies who’d come after me had said?

Poison.

Yes, that was it. But what did that mean? That they knew Morgan had poisoned me? How could they know that? Or were they going to poison me themselves? Didn’t seem to be much point in that, since they were about to tear me limb from limb. Was the poisoning supposed to have come after the dismemberment, or during?

Oh, just let it go, I told myself.

I don’t really know why, but it was strangely comforting to have the amber pieces back in my possession. I guess part of it was that, whatever Morgan had done, I didn’t want to see her trapped forever in solidified resin. And because I’d known her.

Morgan had been the coolest girl I’d ever met. She was worldly and funny and cynical in a way I could never be. She was brimming with self-confidence. She was okay with being alone. She was fearless. She was magical, a Traveler, someone who could move between planes of existence as easily as the rest of us could walk out a door.

She’d been everything I’d ever wanted to be.

I know I should have hated her, especially after what she’d done to me, but even so, I couldn’t. When I rolled the smooth stones between my fingers, all I knew was that I wanted to know more about her. Give up your secrets, I thought. Show me who you are, Morgan le Fay.

• • •

I didn’t have to wait long to see her. She was a few years older than she’d been the last time—maybe my age. I could recognize her face now as the Morgan I knew. Again she was dressed in beautiful clothes, with a metal chain around her waist and soft cloth shoes. As she moved, I realized that she was in a large building with long, slender windows surrounded by a circle of water.

She crept silently up the length of a stone-lined corridor and listened outside a room with an open door. Inside was the same man I’d seen in the first vision, when he had made magic butterflies with his young daughter and then left her to the vultures as he’d disappeared from view. He had changed considerably since then. His hair had turned white, and he had grown a beard. He was speaking with a man who was around my father’s age, who wore a gold coronet around his forehead. The king, I thought.

The old man put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Arthur,” he began.

Arthur? I gasped. The man was the king, all right. The king himself. It had to be. King Arthur.

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