by Unknown
‘What is it?’ He took it, his face suspicious.
‘Just wine. Wine and herbs. It’s meant to stave off a cold.’ The lies felt miserable and dark on her tongue. He had saved her life and she was repaying him with deception and spells. ‘All that time in the river – I didn’t want you to become ill on my account.’
He took it. Something in his expression softened slightly.
‘Please,’ she said. The deceit twisted inside her, like cramp. ‘Please, won’t you try it? I made it for you.’
He put his lips to the bottle. She held her breath. Then she saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed, and she began to speak, the words tumbling over themselves.
‘Luke, what you saw – Sebastian’s mother, the way she healed me. You should never have seen that. I’m sorry – you were never meant to know. Please, forget it. Just forget it. I . . .’
She stopped. He had pulled the bottle away from his lips, his eyes aghast. He looked down at the bottle and then back up at her.
‘This is a spell, isn’t it?’
‘I—’
‘You bitch.’ He looked from the bottle in his shaking hand, up to her face.
‘I – Luke—’
‘Please.’ He let the bottle fall to the ground with a smash and grabbed her with both hands, his fingers hard on the soft muscles of her upper arm. There was something desperate in his face. ‘Please, I’m begging you, don’t do this.’
‘Luke—’
‘Rosa, please, if you’ve any gratitude at all, if you really meant one word of those thanks, please don’t cast that spell. Don’t take away my memories – you don’t understand, you’ll be condemning me to death.’
His grip on her was fierce, frantic. Rosa opened her mouth, but no words came. The smell of wine and rosemary on his breath and on the cobbles rose up, making her head swim. His grip was so tight it hurt. It came to her that they were alone, that no one would hear if she screamed. That she was weak from her near-death in the river, her magic a thin, poor thing against his strength. That men had killed for far, far less than this . . .
‘Rosa?’
‘All right,’ she gasped. He let her go and she stumbled back against the wall, her breath coming fast.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He closed his eyes. His face in the moonlight was all shadows – unreadable in the darkness – but there was no mistaking the heartfelt gasping relief in his voice. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘But you must promise never to tell anyone, do you understand? It would mean my disgrace and perhaps your life, if they found out that you still knew.’
‘I promise,’ he said hoarsely. He slid down against the wall until he sat on the cobbled floor of the yard, his back against the soft crumbling brick of the stable wall. She sat down next to him in the deep shadow, feeling the warmth of his arm and shoulder close to hers and the chill of the night air on her other side. In the darkness she could hear his breathing above the quiet sounds of the night. It was fast and shaky, still recovering from his intense fear and panic. Then something struck her.
‘Luke, how did you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Know that the bottle was a spell.’
There was a long silence. Rosa began to wonder if he would answer her at all and whether she had been very stupid. Her fingers clenched around the rosemary twigs. It was not too late. If she burnt them now, spoke the incantation, she could still complete the spell. She could still take those memories . . .
‘Because I see witches,’ he said at last, his voice as low as if he were confessing a murder. ‘I’ve always known. I can see magic, feel it, hear it.’
Shock rippled through her, hot and then cold. It was not possible. It was not possible.
‘What do you mean?’ She turned to face him in the darkness and conjured a frail witchlight on her palm to read his face. It took almost all her remaining magic, but she had to see him, to read his face. ‘You mean you knew? You knew when you came to work for us that you were walking into a houseful of . . .’ She paused, the word like a curse on her tongue.
‘Witches? Yes.’ His face in the witchlight was pale and tired, but his hazel eyes were dark. She stared at him. His eyes met hers and she finally understood. Understood his strange reticence, his wariness, his sense of holding himself apart. He was apart – he was neither witch nor outwith, but something in between.
‘How?’ she said at last. ‘How did you know?’
‘I can see,’ he said simply. ‘I can see the magic coming out of you.’ He put his hand out, towards her face, and she thought for a moment that he would touch her but his fingers stopped, just inches from her skin, as if he was afraid she would burn him. ‘They’re all different. Every witch. Your brother’s is green like his eyes, yellow when he’s afraid. Knyvet’s is black, like smoke.’
‘And . . . and mine?’
‘It’s like a flame.’ He let his hand drop and she fought the urge to reach out, run her fingers down the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone, touch the soft roughness of his beard. ‘It’s red-gold, like your hair. Like a halo. It’s more beautiful than I could ever describe.’
Rosa swallowed. She tried to think straight.
‘You know – you know there are those of my kind who’d kill you if they knew this.’
‘I know.’
‘So you have my secret . . . and I have yours.’
‘Yes,’ he said softly. His deep voice was low. ‘We’re equal.’
The clock struck with shocking suddenness in the still night air – nine loud chimes. Rosa stood up, her heart thudding hard.
‘I must go. They will be coming out from dinner. I’m supposed to be in bed, convalescing from the fall.’
‘Rosa . . .’ He caught her wrist. ‘Thank you.’
‘No, thank you,’ she whispered.
For a moment she stood, feeling his fingers on her wrist. His skin was as rough and hard as his grip was gentle. Then she tugged her wrist free and ran, pulling the cloak over her head. Two grooms were coming out of the stable block as she passed but neither cast a glance at the fleeing girl in the shabby cloak. She could have been a maid, or an errand girl, or a ghost.
Luke shivered in the shadows long after she was gone. The smell of the spilt wine filled the air, the stench of magic mingling with the fumes of alcohol and rosemary. He felt hot and cold with fear at the thought of all that she could have taken. Not just the memory of the river – but more, perhaps. The memory of why he was here. The memory of his task. And he would have known nothing until the Malleus came for him one night, with a knife between his ribs.
The thought was like a cold hand round his heart.
He could not kill Rosa. He knew that now. He was a coward, through and through.
One of them must die – but he could not kill her. It was as simple and as wretched as that. Which left – only him.
And so – what now? Back to Spitalfields?
It was unthinkable. What could he say when they asked him about his mission? I’ve decided not to do it. The girl was young and pretty. I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t have the guts.
How would they kill him? Would it be quick and kind or long and slow? Would it be a knife in a dark alley, like a thief in the night, or face to face in the meeting house, like an execution?
Without warning a picture came to him – of John Leadingham’s abattoir, the bloodstained hooks and the hissing lamps. And himself, swinging from a hook, naked and gutted like a pig. He closed his eyes.
He had nowhere to go. He could not go home. He could not stay here. His first mission, and he had failed. He had betrayed the Brotherhood and failed in his oath. It was all her fault. He should hate her for it. And he could not.
Back in her room Rosa ripped off the cloak and stuffed it into the carv
ed mahogany wardrobe. The hem of her nightgown was spattered with mud. She could not leave it like that for the maid to notice in the morning.
‘Áþierre!’ she whispered, rubbing her finger across the mud. Nothing happened. Her heart was too full of turmoil over what she had done, what she had not done. ‘Áþierre!’ she hissed again, more forcefully. If only she had the grimoire, a proper spell instead of these half-remembered charms from her childhood. ‘Áþierre! Bescréade!’
She peered at the stains in the candlelight. Perhaps they looked a little better. Not perfect, but better. She climbed into bed and lay there, stiff and shivering beneath the starched sheets.
There was a gust of male laughter from some far distant corridor – Sebastian and his friends going to drink port or play billiards, no doubt.
Before she doused the candle she stared at the rosemary, lying soft and wine-draggled across her fingers. It was Luke’s memories she held in the palm of her hand. What had made him so terrified to lose these last few weeks? She heard his voice again, the naked desperation as unmistakeable as his accent: Don’t take away my memories – you don’t understand, you’ll be condemning me to death. He was telling the truth – she did not need a sooth-spell to be sure of that. But what could he possibly have done that would mean life or death?
The answer must be tangled up with the astonishing revelation he had made. A man who could see witchcraft, who could not just sense their power, but physically see it. She had never heard of anyone who could do this – let alone an outwith. Even the possibility was unthinkable – and she knew what Alexis would say if she told him. First he would not believe her, but if she eventually managed to convince him, Luke’s life would not be worth a farthing.
She thought of the day she had first seen him, in the stables, with the setting sun streaming through the door and turning the dust motes and scraps of straw to flecks of gold that landed on the tanned skin of his arms, and the freckles on his face, and his gold-dark hair, illuminating them with glory.
She thought of him sitting next to her in the dark shadow of the pigsty, his face white and drawn in the thin, pale gleam of witchlight, his clear hazel eyes grown dark and afraid.
She could not betray him – even though her conscience told her that her loyalty should be to Alexis, Sebastian and her own kind. Even though he was just an outwith. Even though he was perhaps more dangerous than anyone could possibly know. She could still not betray him.
Rosa awoke to the sound of the breakfast gong, but for a few moments she just lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the house while the memories came slowly back.
Cherry.
The river.
Cassandra’s mother.
Luke. Luke.
She opened her eyes. The rosemary twigs were still clutched in her hand, damp and limp with sweat. Carefully she uncurled her stiff fingers and laid the bundle on the polished wood of the bedside table. Then she swung her legs out of bed and found a handkerchief in the drawer of the dressing table by the window. She wrapped the twigs carefully in its linen folds and tucked it back in the drawer, between the layers of woollen stockings and petticoats. She would have to decide what to do with it.
Then the gong went again, the second bell, and she began pulling on her clothes. She was just doing up the last button on her boots when there was a tap on the door.
‘Come in,’ Rosa said.
It was a maid with a teapot on a tray.
‘Oh, Miss Greenwood!’ she cried as she saw Rosa bending to finish the last of her boot buttons. ‘You shouldn’t be up and about – I was to bring you up breakfast in bed.’
‘Breakfast in bed!’ Rosa nearly laughed. She had never had a breakfast tray in her life, except once when she was laid up with scarlet fever, and then it was only a bowl of gruel as befitted an invalid. Mama had breakfast in bed, of course, and had done for as long as Rosa could remember. But such luxuries were not for girls.
‘Of course, Miss Cassandra told us about the accident and said you’d likely not be fit to come down until lunchtime, perhaps not then.’
‘Well, I’m up now,’ Rosa said. ‘So never mind. I’ll go down to the morning room with the others.’
‘I only came up to see if you were awake yet and bring you your tea if you were. Oh, and to tell you there’s a parcel arrived for you.’
‘A parcel?’ Rosa frowned. Who would be sending her a parcel, here? ‘What kind of parcel?’
‘A big one, miss. With a London postmark.’
‘Do you think there’s time for you to bring it up before the last breakfast gong?’
‘Oh, bless you, miss, yes. The breakfast things will be out for an hour or more yet. Mr Sebastian never makes it down before ten, and we don’t expect the house guests to tumble out of bed like ninepins. I’ll bring it up in a trice and you can open it comfortably before you go down.’
Rosa had finished her tea by the time the girl came back with the parcel. It was, as she’d said, a big one. The box was too wide to go through the door sideways so the girl had to turn it on end. Then she laid it on the bed.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a little something on a tray, Miss Greenwood? Some buttered toast, perhaps, or a soft-boiled egg.’
A soft-boiled egg? Rosa thought of the magnificent spread on the first morning – hot chafing dishes full of sausages, devilled kidneys and crisp bacon, scalding porridge with cream, piles of golden potato cakes and hot mushrooms swimming in butter and juice.
‘No thank you, honestly—’ She scrabbled for the girl’s name but it didn’t come. ‘I’d just as soon go down. I promise I’ll tell Miss Cassandra it was my own choice.’
‘Very well, miss.’ The girl bobbed a curtsey and left, and Rosa turned with greedy curiosity to the big box.
It was wrapped in brown paper and string, and sealed with red wax, but there was no sealing mark – just blobs on the knots – and the postmark was Piccadilly, which could have meant everything and nothing.
But as she tore back the paper a piece of card fell out. She picked it up, and letters began to appear, scrawling across the thick card in Clemency’s large, looping hand.
From your fairy godmother, darling. You SHALL go to the ball.
Rosa held her breath as she pulled back the lid of the box. Beneath the ivory cardboard was more ivory, masses of it, like a frothing snowy sea. As she pulled it out the folds fell away and in her arms was a dress – not just a dress, the most beautiful dress she could have imagined. It was made of ivory silk embroidered with hundreds of tiny green leaves, twining and wreathing up the bodice, looping around the narrow waist, trailing in garlands down the flowing train.
‘Oh, Clemmie!’ Rosa whispered. She held the dress to her bosom. It was too beautiful to be hers. Writing began scrawling across the piece of card.
My dressmaker had your measurements from the habit and I couldn’t resist – I knew when Philip mentioned a ball on the last night what your predicament would be. Please don’t be angry! You can pay me back after you’re married. Yours, with impudence and love, Clemmie.
P.S. Bonne chasse!
As she watched, the ink faded into the paper and the card was blank. Only the dress remained.
Rosa knew she should be angry with Clemency. And part of her was. But beneath that was a frothing, bubbling excitement. She could go to the ball. And with this dress, she need not spend all night trying to hold her gloves to cover the shabby, worn places, and stand to hide the spell-patched stains. In this dress she could dance, she could flirt. She could match any other woman in the room.
Bonne chasse, Clemency had written. Good hunting. Oh, Cherry . . .
‘I told ’em,’ the old man said sadly.
‘What?’ Luke raised his head and turned from scrubbing down Cherry’s empty stall. His head felt dull and thick, as if he
’d drunk too much gin the night before and overslept. In fact he’d drunk nothing but the mouthful of spell-soaked wine, and hardly slept at all.
‘I told ’em about that bridge. And now a good ’orse is dead. How come ee didn’t warn the lassie, eh? I tried to tell ee.’
Luke rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. He’d been expecting the question. Thank God the old man had chosen to ask it when they were alone in the stables.
‘I did tell her,’ he said, the lie black and bitter on his tongue. ‘I called out. But she was ahead of me and I couldn’t make her hear.’
The old man sighed and shook his head.
‘Ah, that sounds right enough. These young ladies, ’eadstrong they is. Not like in my day. You wouldn’ta caught a young lady hunting back then. They’re not strong enough for it. Well, thank the blessed Lord twas only a horse died, and not the young lady. Back to Lunnon town tomorrer, eh? You’ll be glad to be back on your own turf again, I’ll be bound.’
Luke nodded, but his heart felt anything but glad. He had spent the night trying to think of a way out of this trap. He could not go back to Spitalfields – not without Rosa’s blood on his hands. Could he stay in Knightsbridge, with the family, somehow? But the Malleus would come looking for him; he would be found and killed.
Which left only one option: flight. He would have to run away, never to see Spitalfields again. Never to see William, or Minna, or any of his friends. Never to be a Brother in the Malleus. He would spend his life on the road looking behind him, over his shoulder, waiting for the knife, the rope, the hand in the dark.
And Rosa. She would stay. Would they come for her too? He didn’t know. Her name had been chosen, which meant that she had to die. The thought gave him a strange cold pang deep in his chest. She’s a witch, he told himself savagely. She can take care of herself.
But the picture that floated before his eyes in the dim warmth of the stable was just a girl, a girl with no inkling that she was doomed.
‘Best look sharp now,’ the old man was saying. ‘The first of the carridges’ll be arriving soon and they’ll be wanting that stall.’