A psychological curse, her father’s specialty. Donovan Dryden had left his mark on New Chester. She had thought she could escape him so far from High Lure, but he had come to the outer counties in the flesh to paint that image. Maybe he was still there. Fear squeezed at her innards, making her nauseous.
Briar had panicked when Archer moved to destroy the painting. All would be lost if they drew her father’s attention. She’d had no choice but to curse Archer to sleep. She had likely killed whatever had begun to develop between them in the process. Feelings of attraction aside, their trust in each other had been a fragile thing, like the first shoots in a spring garden. She had crushed it into the dirt in a matter of seconds.
Maybe it was for the best. She couldn’t escape what she was no matter how far she ran. Archer would never understand.
With a sigh, she fished the blue-smalt stone out of his mouth to awaken him. His eyes snapped open at once. He looked up at her leaning over him, her hair falling around their faces. A smile tugged at his lips, and a sort of painful breathlessness clutched at her chest. Then Archer’s smile faded, and she knew he was remembering where they’d been as he closed his eyes.
He sat up, reaching for his belt knife. “You cursed me.”
“I can explain,” she said quickly, scrambling backward.
“You’d better do more than that.”
“I had no choice. If you had touched that painting—”
She squeaked as Archer seized her wrist and pulled her toward him. His knife caught the moonlight.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Did Larke hire you to curse the town with that vile—”
“No! I was trying to stop you from attracting—”
“One of your friends?” Archer asked roughly. “Someone who wouldn’t want their wicked little joke messed up?”
“They’re not my friends. They’re—”
“Then, what?”
“I’m trying to tell you, if you’d let me finish a sentence,” Briar snapped.
Archer opened his mouth then closed it again. He lowered his knife a hair but kept hold of her wrist, watching her through narrowed eyes.
“I recognized the style of that curse,” Briar said. “It belongs to a very dangerous curse painter from High Lure. He doesn’t normally work in the outer counties.”
Her voice sounded too loud, and she was keenly aware of the forest looming at her back. The silent shadow of New Chester wasn’t much better. Anyone could be watching.
“I’m not sure how long that curse has been there,” she went on, “but if the painter is still in the area, we do not want him to find us. I can only think of one place around here important enough to need a curse painter of that caliber.”
“Narrowmar.”
“Exactly.” Sensing Archer wasn’t about to stab her, Briar tugged her wrist out of his grip and rubbed it gingerly. “If that particular curse painter is protecting Narrowmar for Lord Larke, our job is going to be even more difficult than we thought. If he knows we’re coming, it will be completely impossible.”
“I see.”
Briar winced at the flat tone. Archer’s face had closed up like a crocus in the dark and held no hint of the warmth he had shown her since Mud Market.
“I’m sorry I cursed you,” Briar said, “but do you understand why I couldn’t let you touch that painting?”
“I do.” Archer stood, his movements brusque, professional. He didn’t hold out a hand to help her up, as he had so many times before.
She got to her feet unaided, ready to run if he tried to grab her again. He simply looked at her, as if waiting for something.
Briar shifted her feet nervously. “Should we go find the others?”
“Not yet. I’m afraid I can’t let your little secrets and insubordinations slide anymore.”
Briar’s eyes narrowed, her fingers inching toward her paint satchel. “Insubordinations?”
“I hired you for a job. It’s my own fault for not checking your references thoroughly enough, but the team and I can’t afford the liability anymore.”
He was referring to her and the team as separate entities again—and it stung. She’d been right. The trust between them had been obliterated in a single moment.
She flattened her voice to match his, trying to hide the hurt. “What are you saying?”
Archer put his knife back in his belt and folded his arms over his chest. “I think it’s time you told me exactly who are and how you’re connected to this mystery painter.”
Briar’s shoulders slumped. After what she had just seen in the village, the signature style of the painting and its effects, she wouldn’t be able to keep her identity hidden for much longer. Archer deserved to hear the truth from her. And so, with the darkness descending on the world, held back only by starlight and the glow of the enchanted village, Briar told her story.
This is the story of a blessing. It was a little blessing, the kind that kept its parents up at night with squalling cries and tiny fists wrapped around paint-smudged fingers. It was the kind of blessing that inspired a fierce, stomach-churning desire to protect even in the haughtiest of fathers and the most ruthless of mothers.
The blessing’s parents were in the business of adding large chunks of evil to the world, but that one time, at least, they made something good.
Chapter 16
“My parents taught me to paint,” Briar began. “We spent hours in the studio in our house from the moment I could hold a paintbrush in my chubby little fists. I went from simple stick figures to rough landscapes to pictures that actually looked like their subjects in record time. My parents are both wonderful artists, and I was their best project. They taught me their theories about curse magic, too, but most of the time they just liked putting brushes in my hands and seeing what I could do.”
She remembered laughter
