Beatrice thought that she wasn`t afraid of blood. Didn`t an average woman have to confront the sight of it each and every month from the time that she was twelve? At sixteen, she must have seen entire gallons of blood in her life, already. What the princess had not been prepared for was the struggle, the violent spasms that wracked Anryn`s body as Ciamon carved the curse.

　　They`d tied Anryn`s arms and legs to the bed with Beatrice`s veils, and Beatrice gave him her wooden snake comb to bite down on. It seemed a little silly at first, but as Ciamon began to cut the mark, Anryn started writhe, pulling at the bindings. He gasped and bit at the comb.

　　Ciamon didn`t seem to notice. He worked as if in a trance. His hands moving, stopping, then moving again. The mage gazed at the water in the bowl on the floor, until he saw something in its depths, some inspiration. Then Ciamon turned back and worked the tip of his sickle knife against the prince`s skin.

　　Blood ran over Anryn`s ribs. The prince`s whole body writhed underneath the smallest movements of Ciamon`s knife. Beatrice tried to mop up the blood, but there was too much of it. After only twenty minutes, she couldn`t bear to stay there, the coppery scent of her husband`s blood filling her nose.

　　Beatrice tried to apply herself some other way, to make herself useful. The door to Anryn`s room was shut, the guards still posted outside. She dragged two chairs against it so that they would not come in. Then she stacked books and end tables on top to block it from opening.

　　Unable to watch Anryn in so much pain, she went to the servants` steps and climbed down to her room. She made a show of getting ready for bed, having her maids undress her, ordering that all the candles be put out.

　　An hour passed. The blaze in Mahaut raged on, casting a dull orange glow over the room. Beatrice watched from her window as the smoke blanketing the city thickened. Thundered rumbled over the sky. Beatrice thought that it would be a miracle if a rainstorm broke just then. Or it might be witchcraft.

　　Beatrice shivered. The curse that haunted the Prince of Ammar was more insidious than she even realized. Unlike any she`d ever read about, even in fairytales. Beatrice did not know whether her husband was a witch, a woman, or perhaps just the most unlucky man alive.

　　Lightning streaked across the sky. For a moment, Mahaut was alive with color as if it were full daylight. Beatrice saw hundreds of people in the streets, flooding the fire lanes between city blocks. The lightning flashed again, and Beatrice`s eyes spotted a familiar twisting in the clouds where they met the billows of black smoke.

　　The daughter of a sailor knew a funnel cloud when she saw one. A tornado could fling a galleon all the way across Sanchia`s mightiest harbor. What could it do to a city on fire?

　　Beatrice threw open her bedroom door. No guards were posted there. She ran out into the hall, down the stairs. Somewhere a bell tolled. More men armed with poleaxes and swords rushed down the palace stairs, heading for the courtyard. She nearly collided with one of Lady Tommasi`s daughters as she raced toward the open door.

　　"What`s happening?" Beatrice asked her, grabbing the other girl`s arm.

　　"Witches! They broke out of the prison, and started a fire& Let me go, I have to get to my father`s house to get my things! It`s spreading all over the city&"

　　Beatrice ran outside. The smell of smoke stung her nose. The night air hung heavy all around her, warm and wet as summer, tingling with the unspent lighting hanging in the clouds overhead. Her ears felt full and taut. Beatrice looked up, trying to find the funnel cloud. It was nowhere over the palace.

　　"Beatrice!" Riccardo raced towards her across the courtyard. Dozens of men and women followed behind him, all wild-eyed and afraid. Her brother was bloody, a gash just above his eye filling his face with crimson. He saw the blood on Beatrice`s clothes from where Anryn`s had stained her clothes, and he screamed.

　　"They`re killing them here too? We barely got away from the garden&!" Riccardo said. "They`re stabbing anyone they think might be a witch!"

　　"Come inside," Beatrice said. "We have to get inside, now!"This narrative has been purloined without the author`s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

　　A guard challenged her at the door to the palace. He pointed his poleaxe at them, seeing only the blood that covered them both. Not recognizing the wife of the prince.

　　"Let us pass. Get back inside," Beatrice told him. "Tell everyone to go back inside, now! We have to go to the deepest place in the palace. Away from all the windows. This storm can kill anyone caught outside!"

　　"It`s God`s justice!" the man said, his voice shrill with fear and hardened with prejudice. "The witches did this. Let them all die in the tempest they brought."

　　"Let them in," Beatrice said. She raised her voice, bellowing in the loud angry tone her father used to command Sanchia`s ships. "Stand aside! I am the Princess of Ammar! My husband safeguards the lives of witches. If God has a problem with that, let Him take it up with my husband!"

　　In the face of her conviction, the guard wavered. A clap of thunder startled him, and he gave way completely. Riccardo and the others he brought with him surged into the palace. Beatrice led them to her room.

　　"Bar the door," she told Riccardo. Beatrice looked around. Her maids and a few scared servants hid out in her suite of rooms. There were glass windows in each of them. "All of you, get into the servants`s halls. Get away from the glass!"

　　Thunder roared as Beatrice raced back up the stairs to the prince`s room. Ciamon was untying Anryn`s wrists and ankles. Beatrice went over to the bed. The sheets underneath Anryn were soaked through with blood and sweat. The prince was not moving.

　　There was no time left. Beatrice climbed onto the bed and stood to reach for the heavy velvet drapes. She yelled at Ciamon, "Get onto the bed and cover your face!"

　　A thunderclap, louder than any Beatrice had ever heard in her life, rattled the beams of wood in the walls. Beatrice yanked the thick bed curtains closed. It would have been better to try to get to the halls, but she was sure that they were out of time. She had only seconds to lie down flat on top of Anryn when her ears finally popped.

　　The glass in all the windows shattered. Wind exploded into the room, hurling long glittering shards into the red and gold velvet. Beatrice breathed through her terror and became aware that Ciamon was lying on top of her, shielding them both from the flying glass. It was over in only seconds, but Ciamon went on holding her down until the last of the tinkling of broken glass outside the curtains faded.

　　Then Ciamon sat up and lifted Beatrice off of Anryn. She took her husband`s hand and realized it was hot to the touch. Beatrice ran her palm down Anryn`s arm. When she reached the place where the arm joined the shoulder, she felt something underneath her hand pop. A joint shifting into a new place.

　　"What`s happening to him?" she asked Ciamon. "Is he going to die?"

　　"Way too stubborn for that," Ciamon said. "I added something to change terms—loosen it a bit. Nature has some catching up to do, but& maybe now he won`t be so miserable."

　　Ciamon peeled back the torn bed curtains. Outside the window, rain tumbled down from the black clouds over Mahaut. It hammered down onto the burning city, dousing the flames. Scattering the rioters. Beatrice and Ciamon sat together for a moment. Then, she took his hands and squeezed them between hers.

　　"You have to leave," she said. It was not a command.

　　Ciamon nodded. He looked pale and sick, a thin film of sweat coating his face. Beatrice fumbled in the pocket of her gown and took out the coins. She tried to hand them to him, but he pressed them back at her, holding them to her chest with his bloodstained palm.

　　"Keep them," Ciamon said. "I don`t have the Sight, but& I`m sure that I will see you again, Princess."

　　Beatrice felt the pull again, the wild stab of want that led her to make bad decisions whenever she was with him. If he looked at her, she thought she would kiss him. For the first and only time in her life, Beatrice wished for a veil to cover her face.

　　Ciamon stiffened. He looked all around him. Anryn stirred in his sleep and moaned.

　　"Someone`s calling me," Ciamon said. He climbed down from the bed and stepped around the broken glass. He hesitated a moment and then turned and reached for her, helping her down from the bed.

　　"I have to thank you," he said. "I didn`t come here to do murder—that was Gruffydd`s plan. Glad it didn`t pan out. I`m better at spying& But, maybe not as good as you."

　　"I don`t know about that," Beatrice said. Tears stung her eyes and she thought of the arrows she found in Gruffydd`s library. If only she`d been a little bit smarter, or told Riccardo what she found, she might`ve caught onto the scheme earlier. She had a long way to go before she could match Queen Eva`s silent gait.

　　She was still holding Ciamon`s hand. Beatrice kept it and tried to think of something more to say. Some formal farewell and benediction, as befitting a Princess of Ammar. Nothing came to mind. So, at last, she gave into her impulsive nature and kissed him on the mouth.

　　Ciamon let her, for a moment. Then he stepped back and went to the door.

　　The mage contemplated the stack of tables and chairs Beatrice had set there to barricade it. He reached past the tangle of wood to seize the door handle. When Ciamon pushed it open, all Beatrice`s work to block it fell into the next room. Her barricade had been no use at all.

　　"Fuck," Beatrice said. Why couldn`t God save her from embarrassing herself in front of this man!