Unto Dust

022.

At these words, Fiona collapsed at Wembley's feet, clutching at the hem of her skirts. Her fingers, desperate and manic, tore the ends into rivulets. "She's right," she managed in horror. "I am unable to differentiate my emotions, and I cannot control my magic. I'll overshoot any spells---he might get hurt."

For a moment, the distress on Wembley's face was broken by blithe disbelief. "You underestimate him," she said stiffly, then strode out of the roofless house, presumably to find mor Magus.

Fiona was left with yor Magus a second time. She stared up at the stout woman, who looked a toddler that had been thoroughly delighted. "What are you after?" she spat. "This is all just to call Orithin here? Couldn't you do it like a normal person?"

Yubi lounged in a nearby chair, her arms loosely at her side. Her smile showed every one of her teeth, but her eyes were cool black pits. "Careful now. If his dogs hear you speak his name, they'll come running to tear you up."

She touched her cheek with shaking fingers, the memory of Goldy slapping her dousing her like ice water. Her actions did not go unnoticed.

"Oh, did someone hit you perhaps?" A chill settled into her voice. "On behalf of a Grannadian smaa. My, the times have changed."

Though she knew the old woman was baiting her, any self-control she had slipped through her fingers like water. Despite having come to an understanding with herself about the slur, she rounded on Yubi. "You folk are damned proud of being flour-white after not seeing a lick of sun. My greatest apologies if the color of my skin offends you. What exactly should I do about it?"

The older witch smacked her lips as though she had sucked on something sour.

To hell with decorum, with pretense.

Her heart hammering out of her chest, her hands found purchase on the long wooden table along a wall and with every muscle fiber Fiona wrenched it onto its side.

yor Magus almost looked impressed. She opened her mouth to say something when a knock at the door interrupted her.

A singular knock, then a splintering crash as the door flew open, nearly ripped off its hinges. In the doorway stood Orithin, his hand was outstretched in a fist. Apparently, he had knocked, then in anger bust it open.

"mor Magus," cried Yubi. "So glad you have come."

Fiona could not meet his gaze, instead staring down at the mess she had created. A blush rose in her cheeks as she remembered she was dressed in little other than a ruined chemise and undergarments. Funny she would think of such things even in her drugged state.

Though Orithin had nearly taken the door clear off, his voice was a sea of measured calm. "Wembley says you gave Fiona wovic fern. I was hoping she was jesting."

Yubi arched her eyebrows. "Where is our dear Prostling? You left her back in Cobbell? That's not a place for her."

He ignored her and instead crossed the room to Fiona. His hands were cool and dry as they felt her forehead. A finger pulled at the tender skin under her eye to look for the telltale signs of wovic fern poisoning---green vessels instead of red.

He asked, "How long did it take for symptoms to appear?"

She stared down at her feet and forced herself to think, to count the minutes, rather than to dwell on her fluctuating emotions. "Not more than ten minutes. But it was only a few swallows." When he said nothing, she looked up. His jaw was tense, and his nose flared.

An errant thought crossed her mind. For one who carried himself so formally, he was so easily driven to anger.

That thought was a tiny flame, and wovic fern was oil thrown on top of it. The fire grew and grew, clawing at the gates of her carefully honed patience and reasonableness. Wasn't this man responsible for all of this---for her being taunted about her skin, slapped, and, now, poisoned?