Draco A Medieval Scottish Roma - Jayne Castel Page 0,65

adding items to a small iron pot, murmuring words under her breath as she did so.

A chill feathered down Draco’s spine. Once again, he was reminded of his cursing. The urge to throw the fowl at her and then sprint from this hovel surged within him. However, he’d not abandon Gavina to the witch. So, instead, he crossed the floor and handed the sleepy hen to her.

The bird died swiftly, from a deft twist of the neck, before Nessa drew a knife and cut open its breast, letting blood gush out into the pot. Then, once its feathered body had stopped twitching, Nessa put it aside. She glanced up at where Draco still stood before her and winked at him. “That’s for the pot tomorrow.”

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, his attention went to the disgusting-looking concoction the woman was mixing.

“I need a lock of hair from ye both now,” Nessa continued, wiping the fowl’s blood off her hands with a cloth. “And the potion will be done.”

Misgiving feathered within Draco, and he started to sweat. This really had been an ill-advised idea. He hated the thought of giving this witch power over him; he’d already spent centuries in one’s thrall.

As such, he didn’t move, his jaw clenching as he opened his mouth to refuse her.

“Draw yer knife, Draco … here.” Gavina spoke then, lifting the end of her braid up. Their gazes fused, and the moment drew out. Gavina sensed his struggle and knew the reason for it—he could see understanding in her eyes. “All will be well,” she said finally.

Will it?

Reluctantly, Draco choked down the refusal and drew his pugio. Moving to Gavina, he took hold of her braid, cutting off a lock of silver-blonde hair. He then reached up and sheared off a tightly cropped curl from his own head, before handing both to Nessa.

The wise woman held them upon her outstretched palm, another smile curving her full lips. “Look at that,” she murmured. “Shadow and starlight.”

And then she leaned forward and dropped their hair into the pot.

Nessa removed the pot from the heat, took a wooden spoon, and began to stir the mix, first to the left and then the right—and all the while, she murmured more enigmatic words under her breath, her eyes fluttering shut.

Draco dragged in a breath. It suddenly felt overly stuffy and airless inside this hovel. He was sweating heavily now, and every instinct screamed for him to run. He’d had enough of witchcraft to last a thousand lifetimes.

But he remained where he was, rooted to the spot.

Gavina wanted them to try this, and he wouldn’t let her down.

Eventually, Nessa’s eyes flickered open. “The potion will have cooled a little now,” she announced. “It is time.”

Moving from her stool, she knelt beside the fire pit and cleared away the soiled rushes, revealing the packed dirt floor beneath. And then, to Draco’s disgust, she plunged her hand into the pot of blood, hair, and Hades knew what else, scooping the dark liquid into her hand. Leaning forward, she splattered it over the ground.

Draco’s bile rose as he watched Nessa decorate the floor with dark swirls and splatters. He didn’t look at Gavina while the wise woman worked; she’d likely be horrified by now, would likely regret ever suggesting this visit.

But it was too late. They’d given Nessa locks of their hair, and she would give them answers in return.

Sitting back on her heels, Nessa cast a sharp eye over the patterns and splashes before her. To Draco, they appeared meaningless, but to the witch they clearly held significance, for her gaze narrowed, her jaw firming while she studied the blood stains.

Time drew out. The woman was taking an age in her observations, and Draco suppressed the need to fidget. He was on edge as it was; the urge to start pacing rose within him, but he quashed it.

For once in his long life, he needed to counsel patience.

Eventually, Nessa looked up, her gaze fixing upon Draco. Her eyes were luminous, and she wore a look of sympathy upon her face. “Ye are a man with secrets, Draco” she murmured. “One who has known the depths of despair. Ye have stared into the abyss … and barely survived.”

Draco’s heart started pounding.

She knows, he thought, panic grasping him around the throat. He hadn’t told a soul about those lost years trapped in stone, but somehow this woman knew. He read it in her eyes.

He stared at the wise woman. Indeed, she was far more than she seemed.