“The open road. I understand, but this job isn’t for me.”
“Aren’t you interested in the adventure? You must be bored in this quiet little cottage.”
Briar’s eyes flashed. “I like my home very much.”
Her sharp tone surprised him, and Archer wondered if he’d missed something about the cottage. What was so great about living in squalor? He examined the place anew, seeking some reason for her to defend it so adamantly, such as a newborn baby or a solid gold floor.
When he looked back, Briar’s hands were in her lap, hidden beneath the folds of her skirt. She seemed to be massaging her wrist. Maybe her injury was worse than she wanted to let on. That needn’t stop them. The more time he spent in her company, the more certain he became that Briar was the one for the job.
He tried a different tactic. “Don’t you want a chance to be part of something great? If we succeed, we will have done what no other merry band of brigands has accomplished. Even if the gold won’t sway you, you’d be rescuing a fair maiden. Isn’t that as noble as knocking down the house of an evil old swindler?”
She hesitated for a second, and in that moment, he was sure he had her. Everyone liked rescuing maidens, even other maidens.
Then she said, “No. Thank you, Mister Archer, but I’m not interested.”
“I don’t give up so easily.”
He leaned toward her, and Briar stiffened.
“I think it’s best if you go.” Her voice rang with a gravity that hadn’t been there before.
“But if you’ll allow me to share my plan—”
“I want you to leave my house.”
Something dark flickered in her face, and cold tap-danced down Archer’s spine. Something told him the petite young woman wasn’t quite what she seemed. She spoke with the solemnity of a Crown Mage. He should go, but he was so close to having everything he needed for his mission. He couldn’t give up.
“I could tell the authorities what I saw, you know,” he said softly. “Sheriff Flynn and Willem Winton are old pals.”
Briar’s eyes narrowed. Her hands twitched in her lap, still hidden by her skirt. “Are you threatening me?”
“I am simply making you an offer you can’t re—”
The teacup in Archer’s hand exploded, the force knocking him back in his chair. His teeth rattled at the impact, and purple lights sparked before his eyes. Then the chair itself rose a foot off the ground and soared across the room, knocking over the easel and canvas on its way to the door.
Archer thought he’d be crushed, but the door flew open at the last instant. The chair lurched across the threshold, came to a violent stop outside, and deposited him in a heap on the ground.
Sheriff the dog bounded to his side and alternated between licking his ear and howling at the cottage, now closed up tight. Archer picked himself up, brushing dust off his coat. His hand stung from the exploding teacup, but all his fingers were intact.
The curse painter appeared at the window, holding a rung from a ladderback chair in her good hand. “You claimed to be an honest man,” she called. “If you truly are, you will leave me be and not speak of me to anyone. But know that I can curse the life out of you in a few quick strokes, especially now that you’ve sat in my chair for so long. Death curses take to wood especially well. I hope you won’t give me a reason to use one. Good day, Mister Archer.”
Then she was gone.
Archer stared at the green curtains long after they stopped swaying. How in all of Lure had she made the teacup explode from the other side of the room? He’d never seen anything like it. Any lingering doubts that Briar was the one for the job vanished. He would just have to find another way to convince her.
“Quit your howling, Sheriff,” he called to the dog. “I’m all right.” He patted his friend’s wrinkly head and started back to town.
Chapter 3
Briar scrubbed at the carmine paint she’d spilled on her quilt when she’d cursed the teacup, hands shaking from the adrenaline rush of working so quickly. She kept paint supplies tucked beneath her pillow for emergencies, but she hadn’t been sure that would work. Carmine lake, a bright red made from crushed insects, was an excellent explosive. Transferring the curse to the second cup had been the difficult part.
According to the Law of Resonance, the third law of curse painting, a curse applied to an object of emotional significance could affect a person from a distance. The stronger the emotional connection or the lengthier the contact, the stronger the curse. But a single curse could also affect multiple inanimate objects that regularly came in contact with each other. Some said the same principle was at work.
Briar remembered an early lesson in a stuffy art studio a few blocks from the sea.
“The phenomenon is called Inanimate Resonance by certain third-law theorists,” her father had said after using a single curse to set fire to two books that had spent years tucked together on a dusty shelf. “Others believe the effect is a function of the Law of Wholes. The objects become as one, and that’s why a single curse can touch them. At least two schisms have occurred in the Hall of Cloaks over this distinction.”
“Which theory do you believe?” Briar had asked, more interested in her father’s brushwork than his words. His curses always worked the first time, something she had struggled with back then.
“The only thing that matters is that it works.” The light of the burning books flickered in his large eyes as he turned toward her. “You are learning practical curse painting, Elayna Rose. You must use every tool at your disposal regardless of what some academic from the Hall calls it. Petty schisms have no
