Sitting at her now-accustomed place on the dais, she started forward, then, at a tiny warning flick of his arm, she disguised her shock with a wide yawn. “She grows weary of you, man!” jeered Gregory Denzil, saying it twice so she understood. Elfrida pressed her tongue hard into the roof of her mouth to stop herself from cursing their vile host. Such actively evil magic—far worse than a wish of fleas—could rebound, and if the Denzil they were hunting came to this hall, he would sense it. “Not so, good sir,” she managed when she trusted herself to speak. “I merely wondered what has befallen my lord. He is much ripped about.” Her eyes met Magnus’s, sending him the silent, urgent message that she understood, that she recognized they were in increasing danger. It was heart-stoppingly obvious that Denzil had meant to harm him and pass all off as an accident. “Perhaps he was set upon,” remarked Gregory Denzil, his small eyes shining with malice, bright as the red wart on his forehead.
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