Page 154 of First Ritual
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Yet again, I was led to finding my father.
My stomach lurched again. That bread I’d eaten must’ve been off somehow. I’d barely had any of it and felt clammy. “How would I find the names of the covens she went to? I’m guessing my father is from one of them.”
“We keep a register of magus trips and visitors. You’ll find it in the library.”
“Thank you, sir.” I had more to go on than this morning. I also had a bunch more questions. My mother didn’t believe in secrecy. She’d been a stout teacher against it. Perhaps now I understood why—if secrets had unraveled her life in such a way.
What was her secret? What was she trying to find all those years ago?
I pressed my lips together against the urge to vomit. Great. Stupid bread. “I’ll leave you to your coffee.”
“It’s cold,” he said drily.
“And you’re a magus, sir.”
Varden chuckled. “Go away, Miss Corentine. You’re too straightforward for this hour. One request,” he called out as I turned to leave. “If you do discover the reason Rowaness left, if it’s something you can share, please solve a mystery for an old man.”
I replied, “I will, Varden.” If I can.
Because that gut of mine was twinging—not just with nausea—and I had a feeling my mother’s past secrets could very possibly become mine.
36
“Bread,” I groaned over the toilet bowl.
An amused voice reached my ears. “Am I interrupting something?”
That Corentin had managed to get into my quarters and to the second level before I’d registered him spoke for my state. That I’d let him get to the third level and into the bathroom without stopping him also spoke for my state. “Go away.”
“You seem unwell.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Who’s Sherlock?”
I groaned. “A master of mystery and everything. What do you want?” I burped, then rested my forehead on the cool porcelain where my bare ass usually sat. I cared not.
“I wanted to see if you were unwell.”
I waved a hand, otherwise staying half hanging off the toilet. “As you see. Now go away.”
“—Because Wild is really sick.”
I cracked open an eyelid. “Did he eat the bread too?”
“For someone who isn’t dumb, you sure miss some glaringly obvious things.”
I closed my eye.
“Are you going to sleep?” he muttered.
“Trying to.” I’d sat for hours as my nausea mounted. I’d thrown remedies together to no avail. I’d vomited for the last hour, with things progressively worsening. I’d been about to crawl to the medic area.
Corentin sighed. “You should be asking why you’re both sick, Bronte. That’s the question.”
“Because we both ate the bread,” I said.