Weather Witch

by Shannon Delany

  She shuddered.

  A knock at the door made her straighten and it opened. The girl, Sersha, entered holding a bowl of something and a dark chunk of bread resting on its top. The scent was unlike anything Jordan had smelled before—spicy and pungent. Although her mind urged caution, her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

  The girl was nearly to her when she tripped, the bowl flying from her hands and falling with a clatter and a loud, wet splot onto the grimy floor. Sersha’s face drew into an expression of terror as she scrambled to right things, scooping up the ruined food with both bread and bowl. She muttered apologies and, kneeling, held the mess out to Jordan.

  “I—I cannot…”

  “Please, lady,” Sersha whispered. “I cannot ask for more…”

  “I cannot eat that … It is…” Her lips puckered. “The reason for the one nearly clean spot on this floor.”

  The girl bit her lower lip, but nodded. Rising, she backed up all the way to the door, knocked to be released, and disappeared down the hall.

  Jordan’s stomach clenched, panicking with hunger, and she rubbed it. Bending awkwardly forward, she slowly unlaced the silk ribbons wrapped around her ankles and took off her shoes. They were pretty pointed little things made for those brief moments during a dance when a dress’s hem might lift ever so slightly and reveal footwear.

  They were designed for fashion, not comfort.

  Without a knock, the girl appeared again, surprising Jordan with a fresh bowl of food. The barkeep followed close behind. “Show me how you managed to dump an entire bowl,” he demanded, eyes different sizes in his head as he seethed.

  Sersha walked toward Jordan, limbs stiff, eyes wide.

  “There is no lump in the floor,” he muttered. “No board so swollen…”

  Sersha was, once again, nearly to Jordan.

  “No bloody reason to trip.” Reaching out he cuffed her across the cheek and she stumbled, ducking her head tight to her body, and handed over the bowl, arms trembling so hard the bowl shook in her hands.

  Jordan grabbed it and glared at the man.

  He pulled back his hand again.

  Sersha’s arms flew up to protect her and Jordan shouted, “Stop!”

  He blinked at her, stunned, his arm still raised, fingers curled in a fist as he pivoted toward Jordan. “Stop or what?”

  She glanced at the bowl in her hands. She could threaten him with a bowl of—whatever it was …

  “See, that’s how it always is. A demand and nothing to follow it up.” He whipped back around to the girl.

  “No,” Jordan said, startled by her own voice. Be brave. She clambered to her feet, setting the bowl aside. “Dare not hit her again. She had an accident.” Challenge flared in her eyes.

  “I will discipline my daughter as I see fit.”

  ”Do not.”

  “Maybe I should discipline the both of you…”

  Jordan’s voice rose. “If you raise a hand against either of us, I will destroy you.”

  “Destroy me?”

  “Everything that is yours, I will sweep away. From the first shingle of this tavern’s shambling rooftop to its last board and cornerstone. I will not rest until nothing of yours remains—I will scrub out even the memory of you,” she added, her voice fading into a soft tone all at once gentle and fierce. “Do not touch her.”

  His eyes narrowed, weighing her resolve. His hand lowered, fingers unfurled, and he backed toward the door, seeing something in her.

  He left, followed quickly by the girl, and Jordan’s knees had the good grace not to weaken until the door shut again. She sat down heavily on the bed, barely keeping the bowl upright.

  When she recovered, she sat up and scooped a few mouthfuls of the stew onto her bread and tried to eat without thinking.

  Without tasting.

  The girl returned too soon, but Jordan relinquished the bowl and remainders to her.

  “Next time,” the girl said, “do not help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I would never help you, Witch,” the girl snapped. She spun on her heel, striding out of the room with more attitude than Jordan usually mustered for a proper social outing.

  Jordan flopped back onto the noisy bed and closed her eyes, fingertips wrapped round the heart as she let exhaustion claim her. All around her the night melted away into something less grim for a time.

  Chapter Eight

  Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,

  That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm …

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Philadelphia

  In a room usually reserved for Council business, Chloe was fielding enough questions to wear down anyone ever accused of doing anything. She sat behind a small table, and a row of dour-looking men sat in opposition behind a long table. Watchmen and constables stood at the door and across the Hill she was fairly certain more watchmen searched her quarters and others’ for evidence. If they were searching thoroughly they might find the worst thing of all—the truth about Lady Astraea.

  Her fingers tapped the little table’s surface. It was better this way. If they found her ladyship and ended it all—again—it would be better than letting her wander soulless.

  “Explain to us the loss of your ear.”

  Chloe sighed and focused on constructing an appropriate answer. “My previous lordship, Lord Kruse, found my service to be lacking and my ears to be too readily available to receive gossip. And so he removed one. With his saber. It was a memorable lesson.”

  “And after the loss of your ear, what did you do?”

  “I certainly didn’t listen at doors anymore. And I no longer desired pairs of earrings.”

  “You make light of the obvious doubt cast upon your character?”

  “No, sir, certainly not, sir. I am most grievously offended by the aspersions being cast. But I recognize my station and am quite aware of my innocence.”

  “Three people—people from your previous household—one where you ran the kitchen—are dead.”

  Chloe nodded. “And if I could identify their killer you would have a fierce fight keeping me from doing him harm.”

  “Bold words from a woman who abandoned a fallen household and now finds herself in another household facing ruin.”

  “The Council has ruined us already with the accusation of witchery and Harboring—with mere words. Such little things to bring down such a great family.”

  “The Tester found a Weather Witch. There was nothing to be done but bring her in.”

  “Bring her in and bring the rest of them down.”

  “Show some respect,” one Councilman ordered.

  “How can I when I am given none?”

  “Respect must be earned.”

  “I have earned it. For eight years I worked for the Kruse family. I baked for them, cooked for them, cleaned and straightened accounts for them. I was more than a kitchen girl or body servant—I was a nanny to the children, a friend to the lady. I was family. And when they came and proclaimed the boy a Weather Witch—I wept for them. I died inside—all for the love of him and my adopted family.”

  “Then why did you kill them?”

  “I did not kill them—I loved them!”

  “The morning after Marion Alan Kruse was taken in for magicking, they were dead. And you were gone.”

  “So was the rest of the staff. We were horrified—finding them like that … their bellies distended, tongues swollen and black…” Her eyes squeezed shut and she clenched the small table until her dark fingers whitened.

  “It must have been dreadful to face the results of your actions.”

  “How did my actions cause such a tragedy?”

  “Through the leaves with which you flavored the biscuits.”

  “What?” She straightened, her face going blank for a moment. “We used nothing toxic in the cooking.”

  “Then how did they wind up in the biscuits? The biscuits you had none of?”

  “I don’t …
The staff seldom ate with family—and almost never the same food.”

  “But they were like your family, you said. It seems unlikely your family would not allow you to sup with them.”

  “It was well known. Ask anyone.”

  “We would if there were anyone left to ask. But it seems you all ran as fast as cockroaches when a stormlight flares. So where did you obtain the leaves used in the biscuits?”

  Then her jaw dropped.

  He rounded on her. “Ah, so you do remember now, do you?”

  “Harold. He wanted to help. We went into the garden to pick mint. Mint.” She looked at him, her eyes damp. “It was mint.”

  “Mint doesn’t kill.”

  “We didn’t kill them. It was mint.”

  “Did you pick it yourself?”

  She shook her head. “No. I let Harold…”

  “You allowed a child of four years of age to gather herbs for your cooking?”

  “Yes. He had gone with me several times before … It was mint.”

  “It was negligence. What you and the child thought to be mint was a toxic plant—the same that killed your master and his family shortly after he sliced off your ear and the family fell to ruin. The timing is suspicious.”

  “I would never…”

  “Would you blame the child?”

  “No,” she gasped. “Of course not.”

  “Then accept the blame yourself.”

  She deflated, slumping over the table, head cradled in her arms. She sobbed. Ever so softly.

  * * *

  Even from the sidewalk outside the Astraea estate John saw lights on in the rooms along the upper floor where Lady Astraea’s chambers were. Watchmen stood in stiff pairs flanking the main doors, men dressed in dark trousers and long, crisp gray coats with silver piping and fancy epaulets on their broad shoulders. These were Council watchmen.

  Dangerous men searching for something.

  John shifted the bundle in his arms, the wheelbarrow leaning in the shadow of the estate’s wall. He considered his options. Getting past the watchmen carrying the lady might not be impossible … but the odds were far from being in his favor.

  He felt the faint beat of her heart and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. This was his household’s lady, as defenseless as ever a woman could be. He would not openly risk her. Especially not after they’d come so far.

  He clung to the shadows lining the property’s tall wall, only the occasional glimmer of light bouncing off his high cheeks and wide forehead telling of his passing. He halted at the back of the main house and looked up, examining its back wall.

  A trellis ran along most of the wall, old rose canes and ivy warring to reach the rooftop first. Stepping forward, he grabbed the wooden trellis. He shook it, testing its strength.

  “Apologies, milady,” he muttered. He adjusted Lady Astraea’s body so she hung across his chest, shoulder, and back like a sack of grain, and, his hands ignoring the prick of the rose thorns, he began the arduous task of hauling them both toward the open shutters marking her windows.

  He was puffing out breath by the time he reached her windows. He crossed one last section of trellis and placed his hands on the edge of the nearest windowsill. Slowly he angled over so his head was just above the window ledge and he could glimpse the room’s interior.

  Her bed lay freshly made, the wood floor before it shining in the moonlight seeping in. A few candles still burned—brightly—fresh, considering the amount of time that had passed. So someone had been inside.

  Cynda or Laura?

  Or Chloe?

  John wondered only briefly, knowing it made little difference. He would slip her ladyship into her bed, make his way outside the room, and find one or all of the girls.

  With a final glance to assure himself no one watched, he braced his feet, bent his knees to squeeze them into the spaces between the trellis’s narrow wooden slats, and lifted her ladyship off his shoulder, resting her on the window’s broad ledge, one steadying hand on her waist.

  Another slide and a step and he was directly before the window, climbing up to rest one knee on the cold stone sill. With a grunt, he got his hands onto the thick wood and iron shutters and hoisted the rest of his bulk up, struggling to not be indecently near her ladyship’s prone form. It was difficult, maintaining appropriate decorum during a rescue.

  He slid past her and dropped his feet to the floor before scooping her up. Crossing the floor to her bed, he laid her down and freed her from the quilts and blankets.

  She was nearly as quiet as the statues gracing the cemeteries near the middle of the Hill—where the elegant people were buried, if they couldn’t afford a proper tomb or a Bone Shrining. He shivered at the thought of being Bone Shrined—to have the flesh stripped from your bones so your bony bits could be strung up as chandeliers or stacked as walls or doors in your chosen church, where you could forever watch your fellow parishioners and descendants …

  His thoughts straying, he stepped away, backing to the door and opening it. He slid into the blessedly dark hall and locked the door before making his way to find either Cynda or Laura.

  Or best yet, Chloe.

  * * *

  John found both Laura and Cynda seated outside on a stone bench in the gardens, huddled together over the remnants of one of his lordship’s cigarettes. He should have asked how they came by it, he knew he should, but the way they hung so close together, wary eyes on the house, words soft and sad, he no longer cared.

  They startled when they saw him approaching and there was a brief fumble as Cynda tried to hide the smoking thing.

  John put his hand out, shaking his head.

  They lowered their eyes and Cynda presented the cigarette to him. He hesitated, watching them, before raising it to his lips and sucking down one long breath. He coughed a moment and the girls shared a giggle as he passed it back to them. “S’been a long time,” he muttered. He turned to look at the house, too, at the trellis he’d clambered over and the veranda Miss Jordan and her friends had been entertained on not many hours before. “We have a problem,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Laura.

  She snatched the cigarette from Cynda and, eyes wide and wild, placed it to her lips. She nodded.

  “You both had best know ’bout it.”

  Laura shook her head and ducked when Cynda tried to reclaim their stolen prize. From around the cigarette she said, “Cynda’s got herself a job offer. She’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “Where?”

  “The Bertrams,” Cynda said.

  John appraised Cynda with a long, slow look. The girl had nice features, long curling blond hair, and an easy smile that was never far from her generous lips. She was not the most efficient household servant but most understood that what Lord Bertram wished for in household servants had less to do with efficiency and more to do with easy attitudes. “If that is what you wish…”

  Cynda pouted. “Yes, John. ’Tis. To be cared for in a household free of magicking and witchery is what I wish.”

  “Then you had best step away from us now before we begin our conversation,” he warned. “I would not wish to entangle you in family matters.”

  She recoiled as if she’d taken the verbal slap physically. Rising from the bench, she snapped her fingers, reclaimed the cigarette, and stalked a distance off, strides so long her skirt swished angrily.

  John glanced at the bench and Laura scooted as far over on it as possible so he might sit down and still no one could remark on the closeness of their proximity.

  “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I should not have…” She closed her eyes tight and swallowed hard. “And now Chloe has been taken by the Council…”

  John’s lips thinned, pressed so hard together. “Is no one person’s fault. She did not have to do such a thing.”

  “I think such a thing is only done when a person feels there is nothing else a person can do.” Laura shook her head. “They have Chloe. Say she’s the one mur
dered the Kruses.”

  John pulled away so fast he nearly fell off the bench’s back. “Chloe could not hurt anyone.”

  “Still. They took her and have her locked away. They mean to try her for the Kruses. And maybe this. Somehow.”

  “They cannot…”

  But the look she gave him said what he did not wish to admit. They most certainly could try her for both. If they wanted a scapegoat they could certainly find her guilty of both—and a dozen other things she had nothing to do with. Attaching a string of known crimes to a single low-ranking person was the easiest way to keep the crime rate appearing manageable.

  John sighed. “You must know things about Lady Astraea,” he said. “Things her body servant would be privy to.” He looked at the space between them—the foot and a half of bench—and he scooted closer to her, closing the gap.

  She gave a snort of disapproval, saying, “This is highly improper…”

  “These are not the times for proper behavior, Miss Laura. These are the times when we must correct things that have gone horribly wrong best we can and trust the other knows our motivation.”

  She pressed her lips together now, too, nodding slowly.

  John leaned forward to whisper all he knew about Lady Astraea’s strange new condition, hoping her new body servant would prove loyal.

  Holgate

  Bran woke in the middle of the night, the sound of his own scream filling his ears. He clutched the covers, his body shaking and damp with the sweat drying all across it.

  A wind rattled his shutters and he went to them, crossing the cold floor in bare feet as fast as he could. He tugged the shutters tight and latched them at one more spot before straightening, his face full of wonder.

  He picked the small journal off his bedside table and flipped through it to the day’s date. He had scheduled no wind. The water in the pitcher he used for washing sloshed as if shaken.

  His shutters shook again in defiance. He closed the journal and stepped back to the window. Was an intruder outside on his balcony? Did someone mean to finally murder him in his sleep? Tiptoeing to his fireplace’s mantel, he took down his father’s sword. Another relic from the war that might yet serve him well. He unsheathed it and only jumped a little when the shutters rattled again.