Free The Flame in the Mist by Kit Grindstaff Page A

Jemma clenched her fists.“And … and … with just the occasional sacrifice of some insignificant little creature or other?”
    “Yes—yes! It’s not too late! Come to our side. Nocturna would not harm an Agromond ally!”
    “And that,” Jemma said slowly, “is something I can never be.”
    Nox’s eyes hardened, and his expression twisted, sending chills through Jemma’s bones. “After all these years of my love, my nurturance!” he said. “Very well, Jemma. Have it your way. But know that you have just sealed your fate.” He turned and stalked away.
    Jemma shook like syrupwater jelly. Fear brought pain back into her weasel-bitten fingers and ankles. What did he mean, she had sealed her fate? Then it hit her: without her Stone and her Powers, they had no reason to keep her alive. She had let her tongue run away with her—just what Marsh always warned her against!—and the Ceremony tomorrow would probably be the death of her. What if she
had
pretended, as Nox suggested, in order to save herself? No, no—she couldn’t live here, in this dismal, evil place! Not now. Not without Marsh. She would rather die.
    She looked around the stone cell, less than six feet square, with its mildewed walls and single wooden bench. How often had she played in the dungeons with Digby—in this very cell, even, pretending to be imprisoned, and he her rescuer? What a cruel irony that was now! She kicked at the door, and shook the bars.
    Clang!
    The bell sounded deeper in the bowels of the castle. Another toll followed, then two more. Four in the morning. Only five hours until the Ceremony. Jemma slumped onto thebench and buried her face in her hands. Remember courage? The Light Game? Marsh’s advice was powerless to ease the terror gripping her bones, let alone dissolve solid walls and steel.
    “I’m sorry, Marsh,” she whispered, tears trickling between her fingers. “I tried.” She lay on the bench and closed her eyes, and felt her life dribbling away like the damp on the dungeon walls.
    Black swirled around her. “I am not your sweet thirteen!” she screamed. “I hate you! I hate your Mark! May the Sun burn you up!” Then came a dim light, and a woman shimmered through it, draped in the lilac shawl—the same woman Jemma had dreamed earlier, her face now full of sorrow. “Don’t give up!” the woman pleaded. “Please …”
    Darkness closed in again
.
    “Jmmmaaaagh!” A voice wheezed through the gloom. She was suffocating, cold water splashing over her—
    Jemma woke, gasping for breath. Fabric filled her nostrils. Fabric, and dust, and a faint floral scent … The lilac shawl! She snatched it off her face, sneezed, and opened her eyes. The shawl was in her hand, tattered after Nocturna’s assault on it, and Noodle was lying on her chest. He was dusty and covered in scratches.
    “My poor Noodle! That horrid weasel … Thank goodness you’re all right. And you brought the shawl … but where’s Pie?”
    More water splashed onto her. “Jmmmaaaagh!”
    Jemma jumped. Drudge was standing outside the dungeon, wearing a long cloak she had never seen before. He held a half-empty tumbler in one hand, Pie in the other.
    “Drudge! Don’t hurt her!” She leapt to her feet and went to the bars.
    Pie sat quietly in Drudge’s palm. The vicious wounds inflicted on her by the weasel in the corridor were now mere scabs. Drudge placed the tumbler on the cross-bars of the door, then ran his free hand over Pie, inches from her fur.
    The scabs vanished.
    Pie leapt onto Jemma’s shoulders, nudged her cheek, then scampered to the ground and onto the bench next to Noodle, who was scrabbling at the wall.
    “Drudge … you just healed her!”
    Drudge nodded, then stretched his hand toward Noodle. Noodle’s fur shimmered; his scratches closed over. Amazed, Jemma turned back and looked at the old man. He was wheezing heavily.
    “Efff … fort,” he explained. His eyes were watery and clouded over, with a faraway