The gathered people waited, the whole courtyard holding its breath in expectation.

“For Constance Rathbone is responsible for the storm cloud. She is responsible for the madness of the Duke. And … she is responsible for the death of the Duke.” He turned his eyes to Constance. “For she,” he continued, his voice ringing with triumph, “is a mage.”

Constance’s mouth was suddenly dry, and the courtyard grew busy with gasps and murmurs. She forced a laugh, a cold, hollow sound in the whispering hush. Winton stared at her. “This is ridiculous,” she said, “absolutely ridiculous.” Her voice sounded unconvincing even to herself.

“Do you not defend yourself, my lady?” the Justice sneered. “I had my suspicions six years ago or more. The late Duchess too was convinced there was something … odd about the Duke’s firstborn. Curious, isn’t it, that the Duchess conveniently departed this world a matter of weeks before the Lady Protector’s return. And that the mage who cursed her burial rites disappeared into thin air the very day before the Lady’s arrival, as if Constance herself had helped cover her tracks.”

“What? I…” Constance knew she had to speak. She knew the Justice’s arguments were full of holes, threaded together with the barest of suppositions and the slimmest fragments of truth. But somehow the memories from six years ago gathered in her mouth like a gag, and she could not release her words. The mirrors breaking at her lightest touch. The fires sparking in her dreams, setting her bedclothes alight. The wisps of steam from her tea curling into hands and faces and creatures before disappearing into air.

She remembered Winton’s mother, the young Duchess, watching with her beautiful dark eyes. Once, when the Duke’s back was turned, she had pinched Constance on the arm, sharp and hard, and whispered, “I know what you are, and when I prove it, you will be gone—just like your mother.”

The Justice laughed coldly. “Are you not a mage then, Constance? Defend yourself! Did you not visit the Duke in secret yesterday?” he demanded. “And did you not cast a spell on him? A spell to exacerbate his madness, to force him to cast himself from the tower?”

Absurd, she thought with instant clarity—and the absurdity of it knocked her to her senses. Suddenly she found her words. “That doesn’t make sense,” she hissed. “Nothing you have said makes any sense.”

“Do you deny you are a mage?”

She drew herself tall. Half-truths are better than lies. “No, I don’t deny that.”

The gasp rippling through the crowd was spun full of horror. She heard murmuring. Although she couldn’t pick out the words, she could guess their import. Winton was looking at her as if she were a stranger. “Constance? Is it true?” he whispered.