"She took it with her."
Thorne stepped closer. The steward's scent spiked with fear, but underneath it was something else — the same thin bitter note that had clung to the altered ash.
Quiet-thorn. Faint, but present.
Oren had handled the root, or had been close to someone who had.
Thorne did not raise his voice. "You're going to walk with me to the cells. You're going to sit there until the queen decides what to do with you. And if you run, I will take it as proof and I would have no choice but to kill you."
Oren's face went gray. He stood on unsteady legs and let Thorne walk him out of the steward's hall in full view of three other clerks. Word would reach Hadrin before midday. That could not be helped.
