Free Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson Page B

council from whom a Chancellor of Magic is elected every thirteen years. . . .
    Elisabeth skipped onward, skimming the paragraphs until a familiar name caught her eye.
    House Ashcroft, elevated to prominence by Cornelius Ashcroft, also known as Cornelius the Wise, is celebrated for its participation in a number of public works that have shaped the landscape of present-day Austermeer. Cornelius Ashcroft laid down the Inkroads and transported thousands of tons of limestone for the construction of the Great Libraries in 1523, while his successor, Cornelius II, raised Brassbridge’s famous Bridge of Saints from the waters of the Gloaming River in a single day.
    Meanwhile House Thorn is known for the darkest of all magics—necromancy—with which the house’s founder, Baltasar Thorn, repelled the Founderlander invasion of 1510 using an army of dead soldiers raised to fight for King Alfred. Though necromancy is classified as a forbidden art as of the Reforms of 1672, concessions exist for its use during wartime. The might of House Thorn is credited with the kingdom’s continued independence from its neighbors, who have not threatened Austermeerish soil since the War of Bones.
    She stopped reading. Her skin crawled. Tales of the War of Bones had given her nightmares as a child. It did not seem possible that all its horrors were the work of a single man, Nathaniel’sancestor. She was in worse danger than she had realized.
    The grimoire stirred beneath her hands. Without prompting, it flipped to a different section. She only had time to read the chapter heading, Demonic Servants and Their Summoning , before a knock sounded on the door. She froze, consumed by the urge to pretend she wasn’t there. Slowly, stealthily, she closed the grimoire and set it aside.
    “I know you’re awake, Miss Scrivener,” Nathaniel said through the door. “I heard you talking to yourself in there.”
    Elisabeth bit her lip. If she didn’t answer, he might break into her room by force. “I was talking to a book,” she replied.
    “Somehow I’m not in the least surprised. Well, I’ve brought you dinner if you promise not to bite me again. Or throw anything at me, for that matter.”
    Sheglanced at the poker.
    “Yes, we heard you all the way from downstairs. The owner made me leave an extra deposit. I’m fairly certain she thinks you’re up here knocking holes in the walls.” He paused. “You aren’t, are you? Because I’m afraid you won’t be able to tunnel your way to freedom before morning, no matter how hard you try.”
    An evasive silence seemed like the best response, but just then,her body’s needs betrayed her. Her stomach gave a dizzying twist of hunger, accompanied by a noisy growl. She could barely think for the smell of sausages drifting through the door.
    Why had Nathaniel brought her dinner? Perhaps he had poisoned the food. More likely, he was attempting to lull her into a false sense of security before they reached a remote area, where he could kill her and disposeof her body more easily. It didn’t make sense that he would murder her in an inn, surrounded by potential witnesses. In fact, he had practically admitted as much inside the coach.
    Better to accept the food, and keep up her strength, than starve and grow too weak to fight.
    “One moment,” she said, stealing toward the door. Carefully, she tested the doorknob. It was unlocked. She wrenched it openin a sudden rush of courage, only to promptly slam it shut again in Nathaniel’s face. She had recalled, too late, that she was wearing only her shift.
    “I’m not decent,” she explained, hugging her arms to her chest.
    “That’s all right,” he replied. “I hardly ever am, myself.”
    The split-second glimpse of him standing in the hall was seared into her mind. He wore a white undershirt, open at thethroat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The light of the hallway’s sconces had revealed a long, cruel scar twisting across the inside of his left