Read Chapter 23: The Curse's Price

The healer had forbidden her from walking more than the length of her bedchamber, but Cordelia had never been particularly obedient to prohibitions. She leaned heavily on Samuel Finch’s arm as they made their way down the muddy lane toward the edge of the village, where a crooked cottage sat beneath an ancient yew.

“You are certain this woman can be trusted?” Cordelia asked, her voice still thin from the fever.

“Old Meg has delivered half the babes in three parishes and cured more fevers than the apothecary has caused,” Samuel said. “And she knew your grandmother’s mother. If anyone knows the old lore, it’s her.”

Cordelia stopped, turning to face him. The servant’s son met her gaze without flinching, and she noted again how much he seemed to know—of Marlowe holdings, of her grandmother’s dealings, of the hidden paths between great houses. “And how do you know of her, Samuel?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Everyone knows Old Meg, my lady. She’s the one they go to when the church won’t answer.”

The cottage door opened before they reached it, as though the woman within had been expecting them. Old Meg stood in the threshold—small, weathered, with sharp black eyes that seemed to see straight through to the marrow of one’s bones. Her gaze settled on Cordelia, and something flickered in those dark depths.

“Ashworth blood,” she said. “And it’s sickened you, hasn’t it? Not the fever that clings to your lungs—the other thing. The price.”

Cordelia’s hand tightened on Samuel’s arm. “You know of the curse?”

Meg stepped aside, gesturing them into the dim interior. The cottage smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke, and bundles of plants hung from the rafters like strange, twisted ornaments. She motioned Cordelia to a low stool by the fire.

“Sit before you fall, girl.”

Cordelia sat, her legs trembling with the effort of the short walk. Samuel lingered by the door, watchful, and Meg shot him a glance before turning her full attention to Cordelia.

“You used your gift for love,” Meg said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“And the love was true—not some passing fancy, but the real, bone-deep thing.”

Cordelia thought of Roderick’s grey eyes, of the warmth she had felt in her delirium when his hand had clasped hers. “I believe so.”

Meg nodded slowly, her expression grave. “Then you are lucky to be alive at all. The curse does not always spare the mother.”

A cold knot formed in Cordelia’s stomach. “What do you mean, the curse? My grandmother spoke of children—of losing a child. But I am not with child.”

“Not yet.” Meg’s voice dropped low. “But the curse lingers. It marks you now, for as long as you live. If you conceive, the child will not survive. And if you force it—if the child is born despite the curse—it will take you instead.”

Cordelia’s breath caught. She had known loss was possible, had steeled herself for that terrible possibility. But to know that any child she bore would be doomed—that the very act of loving her husband with the fullness of her heart would condemn her future heirs?

“My grandmother said there was no cure,” Cordelia whispered.

“Your grandmother,” Meg said slowly, “has lived long by telling herself convenient half-truths. The full truth is that there is a counter-spell—but it is not a thing of simple charm and candlelight. It is buried in the ancient lore of your family, written in the Ashworth grimoire.”

Cordelia’s heart leapt. “The grimoire still exists?”

“It did,” Meg said. “Years ago—perhaps twenty, perhaps more—it was stolen from Ashworth Hall by a servant who was in love with the mistress of the house. She took it thinking to bind her beloved to her with its secrets. What she found instead, I cannot say. But the grimoire passed out of Ashworth hands, and the woman vanished.”

“A servant in love with the mistress,” Cordelia repeated, a strange chill running down her spine. “What became of her?”

Meg shrugged, but her eyes were sharp. “Some say she died of a broken heart when her spell failed. Others say she found what she was looking for and used it to secure her freedom. The grimoire itself has changed hands many times since—passed like a cursed coin from those who cannot use it to those who believe they can.”

“Do you know where it is now?” Cordelia leaned forward, her weakness forgotten.

Meg was silent for a long moment. Then she reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a small, folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. She pressed it into Cordelia’s hand.

“This is all I know,” she said. “The grimoire’s last known resting place. But I will warn you, child—the counter-spell requires more than words and ritual. It requires a sacrifice. The curse was born of love, and it can only be broken by love that proves itself stronger than fear.”

Cordelia unfolded the paper. A name was written there in a spidery hand, and beneath it, a location she did not recognize.

“Marlow End,” she read aloud. “That is—that is one of Sir Hugh’s forgotten estates.”

Meg’s face tightened. “Then your path is more dangerous than I feared. The Marlowe family has long known of the Ashworth gift. And Sir Hugh Marlowe, I have heard, is not a man to cross lightly—fire and sword he understands, but also things darker still.”

Samuel stepped forward, his voice low. “You speak as though you know Sir Hugh personally.”

Meg’s gaze slid to him, and for a moment, Cordelia saw something pass between them—recognition, perhaps, or wariness. “I know of him. And I know that he did not come by his knowledge of your family by accident. He has studied the old arts for years, seeking power over those who would oppose him.”

Cordelia thought of the failed attempt to compel Sir Hugh, the way her gift had shattered against an invisible wall. She had assumed he was merely warded. But what if it was more than that? What if he, too, possessed magic of his own?

“If Sir Hugh is a practitioner,” she said slowly, “then the grimoire may already be in his hands.”

Meg nodded grimly. “That is the fear I have carried for many years. If he has it, then your cure is beyond your reach—unless you are willing to take it back by force.”

Cordelia stared at the paper in her hands. Marlow End. A forgotten estate, abandoned and crumbling, according to Roderick. But perhaps not as forgotten as Sir Hugh would have them believe.

She looked up at Meg. “There was a child,” she said, the question rising unbidden from the depths of her memory. “A portrait—a little girl, connected to both Ashworth and Marlowe blood. Do you know of her?”

Meg’s face shuttered. For a moment, Cordelia thought she would refuse to answer. Then the old woman sighed, her shoulders sagging.

“The child lives,” she said softly. “Though I cannot say where. She was hidden to protect her from the curse—from both families’ claims upon her. If you find her, you may find more questions than answers. But she is the key, child. To the grimoire. To the curse. To everything.”

“What do you mean, she is the key?”

Meg shook her head. “I have said too much already. Go now, while the light holds. And if you value your life—and your future children’s lives—do not let Sir Hugh Marlowe learn that you seek what he has hidden.”

Cordelia rose unsteadily, the paper clutched in her hand. Samuel moved to support her, and they made their way to the door. But at the threshold, Cordelia paused, looking back at the old woman.

“One more thing,” she said. “The servant who stole the grimoire—was she ever found?”

Meg’s eyes met hers, dark and unreadable. “She was found,” the old woman said. “But she was no longer a servant. She had become something else entirely.”

The door closed behind them, and Cordelia stood in the gathering dusk, the weight of Meg’s words pressing down upon her. Beside her, Samuel was very still.

“I need to see my husband,” Cordelia said. “Now.”