“On display in Lord Barden’s manor.” The blacksmith eyed the paintbrush nervously. “Winton claimed it wasn’t worth the price then gave it to his lordship himself as a bleedin’ present. Now I’m out the coin and the steel.”
“And you want revenge?”
The blacksmith glanced at the summer-bright path outside his smithy and lowered his voice. “It’s not just for me, you see. I have daughters. I want to show them we don’t take abuse from rich bastards what think they can get away with it.”
Briar noted the blacksmith’s frayed trousers, the patches on his boots. A wreath of wildflowers hung on the smithy door, the petals wilting in the heat. She imagined the little girls collecting the blooms and clumsily tying them together to brighten their father’s workplace. The blacksmith’s daughters would have less to eat that winter because of Winton’s greed. Briar liked jobs that brought a little justice for ordinary folks—or at least payback.
She tucked her paintbrush behind her ear and stuck out a hand. “I’m in. Tell me about Master Winton’s house.”
The blacksmith had described the property situated on a spacious lot at the edge of Mere Woods—two stories tall, expensive clay shingles, clear glass windows. And no ladders, apparently.
Perching in the maple tree was becoming less comfortable by the minute. Briar switched from blue smalt to malachite green and began adding vines to the image. She would twine them around the painted house as thick as ivy and add colorful flowers at key points along their lengths. The curse would make the pitch sealing the house against moisture slowly disintegrate. By the coldest months of winter, the roof would leak, and wind would howl through the cracks. She would make Master Winton pay, though he would never know his ill fortune was a result of his cheating ways.
Briar was proud of the curse’s subtlety, but the intricate vines were taking too long. She should have prepared an easier design. Her arms ached from bracing herself against the roof, and the distance between the tree and the wall seemed to grow with each stroke. She began to sweat, the paintbrush slipping in her grasp.
As she paused to open a jar of yellow ochre, she detected movement out of the corner of her eye and froze. Someone was there.
No. Not now. She held her breath, struggling against a powerful urge to run. She couldn’t be caught, but she couldn’t leave the curse as it was either. Without the final stroke, the little image beneath the eaves would be no more than a pretty picture.
She peered through the thick maple leaves, hardly daring to blink. The grassy expanse between the house and the woods was deserted except for the creeping afternoon shadows. Yet she felt someone watching her.
A horse snorted inside the stable, and magpies chattered in the trees, but she detected no movement, no other sound.
Telling herself she was jumping at shadows, Briar resumed her work. The jars rattled in her satchel as she switched between yellow ochre and vermilion, adding flowers to the vines. Curse painting required a strict stroke order, and she couldn’t rush the process, but her brush kept slipping as she juggled two colors and her awkward position. She put the paintbrush in her teeth and clenched her legs tighter around the branch so she could grip the vermilion jar with both hands. The lid was stuck. Knots dug deeper into her thighs as she teetered on the stubby tree branch.
Movement again, a flicker of blue. This time, the shadows took on shape and substance. She wasn’t imagining it after all. Someone was standing next to Winton’s stable. She could just make him out through the leaves—a tall man in an indigo coat looking right at her.
Briar’s heartbeat spiked, and her limbs quivered, making it harder than ever to keep her perch. She wanted to scramble out of the tree and run for it, but she didn’t know what the stranger would do if she tried. She stared at him, as motionless as a sparrow facing a tree snake.
Seconds ticked past. The tall man didn’t leave the shelter of the stable. His shock of blond hair was visible even in the shadows, and he held something long and thin in his hand.
Could he be Master Winton’s gardener? The merchant was a nasty fellow, according to the blacksmith, but would his man really stand back and allow him to be hexed? Briar could be planning to burn the house to the ground with the family inside, for all the gardener knew.
Her legs shook hard enough to rustle the branches. She would attract the attention of passersby if she kept on like that. She couldn’t do anything about the stranger. She had to finish the job.
The jar of vermilion popped open at last. Briar rushed the last few strokes of the curse and messed up two flowers. She repaired them with a few quick flicks of the hard edge of the paintbrush, sweat dropping from her forehead to the earth below. One more petal, and the curse would be complete.
She dipped the brush in the jar and brought it, dripping red, to the wall. The branch groaned beneath her as she stretched toward the farthest corner of the painting for the final stroke.
Suddenly, the stranger stepped out of the shadows. He held a longbow, an arrow already nocked. The action startled her, and her hand slipped, leaving a long red slash down the curse painting. Briar gasped and scrambled for more paint to counteract the slash. Before she could fix it, there was a loud crack, and the branch gave way beneath her. Leaves and twigs lashed Briar’s face as she tumbled from the tree and hit the ground hard. Paint jars crunched beneath her.
She stared up at the shivering branches, winded and shocked. She had fallen. She had actually fallen. Leaves drifted above her, floating on the
