“Father, you alone in Duke’s Forest know the truth about me, about my magic.” But that’s not true, not after last night. She shook the thought away. “It was you who told me to run. Do you remember? You wanted to save me. You knew what they would do to me if I stayed.”

The Duke’s eyes appeared to focus on her for a fraction of a second.

“But I’ve come back, Father. I’ve come to … to save Duke’s Forest. I’m strong now, see. I’ve learned so much. But there’s someone working against me.”

His gaze flickered toward hers again, a glimmer of understanding.

“There is a mage in Duke’s Forest. Other than me, I mean. A mage who sealed the gates. Someone who’s been here all along, right under the Justice’s nose.”

His mouth opened as if he were trying to speak, but no words emerged.

“But, Father, I don’t know who it is. Can you tell me? Who is the other mage?”

“The storm spell must be broken,” he murmured at last.

“That’s right, Father,” she urged, her voice dry with longing. “Just … please … tell me what you know.”

But even as he opened his mouth to speak, he was silent. A strange gargling sound rumbled in his throat, as if his words struggled to escape.

This wasn’t going to work, not without a little help. She lifted her cane, rested the cool pommel against his hand, and whispered under her breath. A purple sparkle emanated from the cane, spreading gradually up the Duke’s arm and over his face, darts of pure light shimmering in the sunbeams like motes of shining dust. Constance closed her eyes, urging the spell to clear the darkness from her father’s mind. But something was stopping her magic.

“Look at me,” she whispered. And the Duke obeyed, the muscles of his face relaxing as he succumbed to her will, his eyes meeting hers.

Gently, ever so gently, she rested her hand on his weathered cheek and slipped her magic into the space behind his eyes: the sensation was like tipping forward into warm water, her fingers and face tingling. The familiar heat kindled in the hollow below her breasts as her magic awakened. But again, there was resistance in the Duke’s mind. And as she pushed a little harder, the resistance grew stronger. Almost as if another spell had been wrought against meddling—but that wasn’t possible, was it? Determined, she tried harder, flinging a surge of magic against the wall in her father’s mind.

A red flash. Her cane flew from her hands—and suddenly the Duke lifted his fist and struck her hard around the face. She fell on the floor, felt her skin tear against the jagged edge of a cracked tile. Hot blood trickled down her cheek. Hand shaking, she raised her fingers to the open wound.