Ten Paces

There were three reasons I was currently stuck in a drafty attic room above a fence who smelled of damp wool and cheap gin, and only one of them was the crown.

Number one: The magic binding us. Specifically, the iron-and-moon ward that snapped around my ankles and his wrists the moment we both touched the velvet cushion, sealing us within ten paces of each other until the moon turned its face. I had tried to walk away. I had tried to crawl. I had even tried to slide across the floorboards like a disgraced seal. The air just got thick, like breathing soup, and shoved me back.

Number two: The fence, a man named Silas who had locked the door to keep the "mystical energy" from leaking out and disturbing his inventory of stolen silverware.