could really tell was that he was extremely agitated.
“Now,” he growled.
Penelope slammed her lunch box shut, set it aside, and surged to her feet. I also set my lunch box aside and stood up.
“Follow me,” Conley growled again.
He strode past us. The two men pushing the wheelbarrows walked by as well, but the other four miners stood there, clutching their pickaxes.
Penelope shot me a regretful look, then headed after Conley. The four miners hefted their tools—weapons—their message crystal clear. Come along, or else.
All around the plaza, the other miners kept their heads down, and another, stronger cloud of tension drifted through the air. No one was going to question Conley, much less try to stop him and his enforcers from doing whatever they wanted with the wheelbarrows—and me.
Despite the obvious danger, curiosity surged through me, along with more than a little eagerness. After weeks of running around the countryside chasing rumors, I finally had a chance to discover what was really going on. So I fell in step beside Penelope, with the four miners closing ranks behind me. Together, we all followed Conley away from the mine.
* * *
Conley swaggered through the plaza and along the main thoroughfare beyond as though he owned it. He called out greetings to several merchants, although they too ducked their heads and focused on their goods, lest they attract too much of his attention. I wondered if Conley had frightened or bribed them to look the other way. Perhaps both. Well, his grip on the mine was rapidly coming to an end.
Penelope and I trailed Conley and his men about a quarter mile down the street. The crowd was much thinner here, and Conley paused and glanced around before ducking into an alley. The merchants and miners were still averting their eyes, and Penelope and I had no choice but to follow the foreman.
As we walked along, I skimmed the minds of the six men.
Someone needs to grease the wheel on this thing . . .
Why couldn’t we do this after lunch?
Going to drink my fill at the tavern tonight with my cut of the money . . .
That last thought all but confirmed my suspicions that the wheelbarrows were full of tearstone.
I reached out with my magic again, this time searching for Topacia and trying to locate her warm presence, but she must have been deeper in the city, because I didn’t sense her. Even if I did call out to her, there was no guarantee she would hear me. Usually only mind magiers, or those with strong, special bonds like Grimley and me, could mentally communicate with each other with any regularity over great distances. Although, sometimes if I was close enough, I could whisper thoughts to Topacia, given our long-standing friendship.
I reached out yet again, this time searching for Grimley. I easily sensed his cool, solid presence, like he was the stone masthead attached to my internal ship, but our connection was weak, indicating that he was miles away. He must have gone hunting with the other gargoyles in the countryside.
I was on my own.
Beside me, tension and guilt radiated off Penelope, the emotions strong enough to cause my gargoyle pendant to grow warm against my skin. Her worry increased my own, but unlike Penelope, I wasn’t concerned about Conley, his men, or where we were going.
No, mine was an old, familiar, insidious fear—that I would lose control of my magic, of myself, and drown in the sea of thoughts and storm of emotions swirling around me. That I would become frozen, paralyzed, useless. That people would get hurt—that people would die—because I was too fucking weak to save them.
Just like Uncle Frederich, Lord Hans, and the other Andvarians had died during the Seven Spire massacre.
Phantom screams ripped through my mind, causing my heart to pound and sweat to gather on the back of my neck. I raised a shaking hand to my chest. I couldn’t touch the gargoyle pendant, since it was still tucked underneath my clothes, so I settled for pressing it against my heart. The silver base dug into my skin like a hot coal, but the discomfort helped me to shove away the horrible memories. My fear, guilt, and shame lingered, though. I had never been able to get rid of them.
Cowardice tended to stain one’s heart for all time.
“Gemma?” Penelope whispered. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
Her worry churned in my stomach again, but this time, I blocked it out, along with my own fear. The