Tessa did not take her hand off the damp granite until the violet pulse in Noll’s blue facet had died away to a dull, cool grey.
The air in the Grand Hall was thick with the smell of scorched limestone and vinegar. A drift of pale mortar dust lay like flour across the toes of her split work boots, and on the table, the linen dossier curled slightly at the edges where Cale had pressed it flat.
“Look at me, Noll,” Tessa said. She stood nose-to-stone with the wall patch, her chin tilted up, refusing to give him the shelter of distance. “Look through that crack and look at who is standing in this room.”
Noll focused his mineral sight through the jagged fissure in the mortar. His core felt bruised, the internal crystal lattice aching with the sudden recoil of gathered, unspent force. It felt like choking back a mouthful of swamp water after winding up for a shout.
“I can see you, Tessa,” his mortar mouth murmured, the stone lips heavy and slow. “I can see Sella. I can see the clerk.”
“Good,” she said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a dull kitchen blade. “Now tell me who was supposed to carry the curse down the hill road.”
