Her burned hands ached; her throat felt raw from crying. But within her pain and confusion, a dreadful resolve was forming. “Stew, little lady?” Na Patris set a bowl on Doucette’s bench, next to other dishes full of untouched food. “Thank you,” Doucette said, as she had before. She made no move to pick up the spoon. The baker’s freckled face clouded with concern. “Eat,” she urged, before the sound of raised voices called her away. Doucette’s thoughts turned inward once more. All evening, she had tried to think of a different way out. For herself, and for Jaume. However much it frightened her, she had seen but one possibility. The Rassemblement. If the ritual succeeded, Doucette would gain a new source of magic, as Tante Mahalt had done. Otherwise … Nausea rose in a sour wave. Doucette swallowed hard. Even if her beloved agreed to help, she might not survive the attempt. A thousand ways to fail, Tante Mahalt had said. The one consolation was that she and Jaume had a better chance together than either had alone.
