Niamh, who had devoted her life to raising and protecting Imogen, had been the reason for her curse. Tears clouded her vision, and Imogen forced them back. Never would she cry before this piece of filth.

Her foster mother had begged her for forgiveness on her deathbed. Deep inside, where Dradus couldn’t see, Imogen wept. For herself and a life so profoundly altered by another woman’s revenge, for Niamh who willingly sentenced herself to raising a child who wielded death in her touch, and for the parents she never knew who welcomed their firstborn into the world and died because of it.

Imogen had fled Dradus’s presence and avoided him now as much as possible. Hayden favored him; she wished him dead and remained wary whenever they crossed paths. His questions regarding Tineroth and Cededa held all manner of traps designed to catch a slip of the tongue or glean a secret. Imogen silently thanked Cededa for never telling her where the Living Waters pooled in Tineroth. Dradus would get nothing from her.

He often told Hayden his studies called him to other cities and towns, and he disappeared for several days, returning with a frustrated scowl and more probing questions for Imogen. She suspected he returned to the gorge in the futile hope of resurrecting the Yinde Bridge and a second crossing into Tineroth. He believed Cededa dead, killed by his own magic and the river that accepted his plummeting body. Imogen didn’t naysay him, though she fervently hoped he was wrong.

All her plans, her desires, her reason for not falling into despair rested in the belief that Cededa had survived and returned to Tineroth.

She abandoned the balcony for her room. Long shadows stretched across the floor, and her maid Lila circled the room, lighting lamps to chase away the darkness. She eyed her mistress as one might a barely tamed beast—cautious and ready to take flight at the first hint of attack.

Imogen quelled the urge to roll her eyes. Lila was no different from any of the others. Her fear of Imogen’s curse hadn’t lessened with time or Imogen’s friendly overtures. She curtsied nervously, nearly setting her skirts on fire with the lit candle she carried.

“’Good evening, Your Highness. Will you be wanting your supper in your room tonight?”

The question was virtually rhetorical at this point. Since she’d first arrived at Castagher, Imogen had only eaten in the feasting hall once, an interminable evening characterized by rude stares, whispers and insincere smiles.

“Yes, Lila. Thank you.”