Chantress

by Amy Butler Greenfield

  The grime, the smoke, the flames. I felt sick as I remembered the pictures I’d seen in Nat’s mind. Even the few moments I’d experienced secondhand had been suffocating. What must it have been like for him to live through them?

  “When he tried to run away,” Penebrygg said, “his master put a brass collar on him, one with a ring so that a chain could be attached to it. Two years later, when he tried to run away again, it was still locked around his neck.”

  Two years, I thought. In a brass shackle for two years. And he was only a small boy.

  It explained a lot about Nat, from the scar on his neck to his fierceness.

  “The second time he was luckier,” said Penebrygg. “He got away at night, when the collar was harder to see, and he broke into the storeroom behind my shop. Thin as a whippet and starving hungry, he was. Yet it wasn’t food he was after, but tools—tools to break the collar. I helped him, and he’s been my apprentice ever since.”

  I tried to take this in.

  “He can be prickly, I know,” Penebrygg said, “but he has a good head on his shoulders and a stout heart. And a true gift for science. There’s many a man in the Invisible College who envies me my apprentice, and that was even before we discovered his talents as a spy and thief. Secret tunnels, hidden staircases, dark passages—nothing daunts him.”

  “No?” I remembered the fear I had felt when I was in Nat’s mind, and I wasn’t so sure.

  It seemed Penebrygg had his doubts too. “At least he’s never given any sign that it has. But it’s worried me that he’s never spoken of his old life, not since that first night. And he won’t let me speak of it either. He’s put it behind him, he says. Having you see the truth must have been a terrible shock for him.”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t help adding, “For me too.”

  “Of course, my dear. I’m sorry it happened that way. Sorry for both of you. But in truth, it’s Nat I’m most concerned about; I wish he’d talk to me about it, but I suspect he won’t.”

  “I expect he’ll never want to see me again,” I said.

  “Oh, he’ll come round, sooner or later. And probably sooner. He’s a practical soul, our Nat, and he knows that if we are ever to win this battle, we need every ally we can get.” Penebrygg gave me an encouraging smile. “And considered in that light, your attempt to read his mind was a great success. When deployed against our enemies, such a gift will wreak havoc.”

  I thought this over. “Scargrave has the ravens, and you have me. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” He peered at me over his glasses. “This troubles you?”

  I was as bad as Scargrave, Nat had said. As bad as the ravens. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the words out of my mind.

  “What the song does”—I struggled for the right words—“what I do—it’s a little like the Shadowgrims, isn’t it?”

  It would have comforted me if Penebrygg had rejected the notion completely. Instead, he said, “Perhaps a little. But only as the sun resembles the moon. Celestial bodies both, but entirely different in their mechanics and effects.”

  I shuddered. I didn’t want to be like the Shadowgrims at all.

  Penebrygg reached out and put a hand on mine. “My dear, you are doing this for the right reasons. It is thanks to you that we have our first real hope of defeating Scargrave. Nat knows that. And when he has had time to think it over, he will surely find it within himself to hope, as I do, that your power continues to grow.”

  I wasn’t so certain. “But—”

  Around us, the clocks clattered to life, chiming the hour.

  “Noon already?” Penebrygg rose from his bench. “It’s time we made ready to meet with the College.” He beckoned to me. “Come along, my dear—I must show you your disguise.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE APOTHECARY’S SHOP

  Penebrygg ushered me down to the room where I had woken that morning.

  “By rights, you ought to be clothed as a lady of quality. But rich apparel might be remarked upon, so Sir Barnaby and I thought to disguise you as a serving maid instead.” He pointed to the bed, where skirts and bodice lay waiting. “I hope that is acceptable to you.”

  “Of course,” I assured him. The plain gray clothing looked warm, and it was considerably less shabby than what I was wearing. “Where does the College meet?”

  “At Gadding House.” Penebrygg opened the cupboard in the corner of the room and handed me a cap, apron, and cloak. “I’m afraid we’re in rather a hurry, my dear. If you could dress right away, and then meet us downstairs?”

  The gray skirts were a tad short, but the full-sleeved bodice hid both the ruby and my Chantress mark, and the loose cap covered my unruly hair. Wrapping myself in the cloak, I went down the stairs. As I approached the last landing, voices floated up to me.

  “She only did it because she was frightened,” Penebrygg was saying. “When you think about it, Nat, she knows very little about either of us.”

  “She knows we’ve kept her safe. But that wasn’t enough for her. No, instead, she walks into my mind, without so much as a by-your-leave, as if she owned me body and soul. I could feel her there—”

  “You could?” Penebrygg spoke with quickened interest. “You surprise me, Nat. I can’t feel her, not in the least.”

  “Well, I could. It was like having my grave walked on.”

  “Let us hope our enemies are less perceptive.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, she is the enemy.”

  I stopped short. I had intended to apologize to Nat, but if he felt like that, what was the point?

  Penebrygg spoke calmly. “We need her, Nat. That is an immutable fact. You must find a way to work with her.”

  A long silence. “Very well, then. I will do what is necessary. But if she tries to read my mind again, I—”

  The stairs creaked under my feet. They looked up and saw me.

  Nat’s shadowed face was angry. “You were eavesdropping?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” I said, stung. “Nobody could, coming down those stairs.”

  “Then you’ll know I’m only working with you because I have to. And if you read my mind again, I won’t answer for the consequences. If you can remember that, then we can work together.”

  “I have no wish to be in your mind ever again, believe me,” I said.

  As peacemaking, it left a lot to be desired. But Penebrygg seemed cheered by it. “We are allies, yes?”

  “Indeed,” I said coldly.

  Nat matched my tone. “Indeed.”

  From that point on, his manner was polite enough. But as we walked to the door, I noticed that he was careful to keep well away from me. Whenever I stepped forward, he stepped back—and whenever I glanced at him, he glanced away.

  Whatever flash of connection we’d shared that morning was utterly gone. That is, if it had ever existed in the first place.

  I told myself I didn’t care.

  † † †

  “Quickly,” Penebrygg murmured to me as we went out into the street. “Nat will watch our backs while we go on ahead.”

  As we hurried along, I wondered if Nat really was watching out for us, or if he was so busy keeping his distance from me that he had lost us. But I knew better than to look behind to check. Much better to appear as if I were out for a stroll with my aged grandsire, Penebrygg had told me. Though nothing about Penebrygg’s pace was particularly indicative of age. He was so quick on his feet that keeping up with him was a challenge—not least because it was difficult to draw breath when so many putrid smells assaulted me. The city’s drains brimmed with dung, sewage, and filth, and a sick-sweet swelter of rancid meat and rotten apples tainted the air.

  If London reeked, I soon discovered that most of it made noise as well. My ears rang as dogs howled, pigs squealed, and carts groaned on every side. And the people! They called and screamed and chattered and scolded, for all the world like a vast flock of gulls fighting for scraps.
r />   What struck me most, however, was not the sheer volume of their cries, but the fear I saw in their faces. Even in full daylight, Scargrave and his Shadowgrims held sway.

  Soon I, too, was weighed down with a sense of unease. Though I knew my workaday clothes made me inconspicuous, it unnerved me to be walking out in the open. What if someone laid hands on me? What if they found the ruby—or my Chantress mark?

  It was then that I saw the woman watching me.

  Silver-haired, she stood in an alleyway, her face still as death, except for her eyes, which gleamed as they fixed on me. As I hastened after Penebrygg, she pulled back into the shadows.

  Should I mention her to Penebrygg? No, that would be making too much of what was really only a moment’s glance. Besides, she was out of sight now.

  “Nearly there, my dear,” Penebrygg said softly.

  A few minutes later—well out of sight of the alley, I was glad to see—he turned down a narrow lane that was darker and quieter than the other streets we had traveled. It felt safer, somehow, though I had no way of telling if it really was.

  When we had walked past half a dozen houses, Penebrygg led us down an even narrower alley and nodded at a shop on our left, where a weathered sign depicting a mortar and pestle hung over a blue-black window. “Here we are.”

  I stared at the shop in puzzlement. Penebrygg had said we were meeting in Gadding House, but this did not look in the least like a great man’s mansion. It was not the time or place to ask questions, however, so I followed him silently over the threshold.

  The room I entered was almost as crowded as Penebrygg’s own attic of curiosities. Boxes and bottles were everywhere, lining the wooden counter and standing on clever little chests with dozens of drawers. The shelves held long rows of blue-and-white china jars, mortars and pestles, and an assortment of beakers and clay pots. Packets of herbs perfumed the air.

  As Nat slipped in the door—he’d been right behind us, after all—Penebrygg nodded at the sharp-nosed man minding the counter. “Good afternoon, Master Apothecary.”

  “A very good afternoon indeed, I hear.” The apothecary glanced at me with frank curiosity.

  Penebrygg said quickly, “You’ll not have met my brother’s granddaughter, here from the country?”

  “Roger Harbottle, at your service,” the man said to me.

  “And of course you know my apprentice,” Penebrygg added, motioning Nat forward.

  The man nodded. “How can I help you?”

  “A dram of Tragacanthum, if you please,” Penebrygg said, “and some white saxifrage seeds. Oh, and have you any syrup of Sanguis Draconis?” He leaned forward and intoned another phrase, quick and soft as a single breath.

  Master Harbottle frowned. “As to the last, I’m not certain. It will take me some time to make a fresh mixture—at least an hour or more. But you may rest in the treatment room while you wait. If you care to follow me?”

  He led us through a small doorway into a long room with a table and chairs. At the back stood shelves and crates and wooden racks where herbs hung drying. After Master Harbottle carefully closed the door to the shop, Nat rolled back the red Turkey carpet and pressed on two floorboards. They pivoted smoothly, revealing stairs that led straight down.

  “Lanterns and matches on the left, as usual,” murmured the apothecary. “Good luck.”

  Nat was already descending the stairs. Penebrygg motioned to me to go next.

  “But where—,” I began.

  “Not now, my dear,” Penebrygg whispered.

  Seeing the urgency in his face, I hastened down the stairs. A match flared below: Nat, lighting a lantern. He did not wait for me but kept moving steadily downward. Not wanting to be left behind in the dark, I followed him. Penebrygg brought up the rear, pulling the floorboards back in place behind him.

  At the foot of the stairs, Nat unlocked a door, and we passed through into a tunnel. Though it was solidly built, with timber beams that braced the walls and ceiling, it was low enough that I had to bend my head and narrow enough that we were forced to walk single file. The smell of smoky candles and damp earth pressed in on us, and I wished I had my own candle to hold back the darkness.

  On we went, Nat’s lantern flickering in front, until at last the passage widened in front of another locked door, twin to the one beneath the apothecary shop.

  As Nat unlocked it, I whispered, “Where are we?”

  “Beneath Gadding House,” Penebrygg told me. “In one of the secret tunnels that lead into its cellars.”

  “There are others?”

  “Three others in addition to this one, each well guarded by friends.”

  “Master Harbottle is a friend?”

  “More than that,” said Penebrygg. “He is a member of our College. His wife will take his place at the shop so that he can attend the meeting.”

  Nat had the door unlocked. Behind it, a short passageway led to another door, larger and more ornate. A guard stood before it, armed with sword and pistol.

  Penebrygg said something complicated to the guard in a language that I did not know. The guard replied in kind, and let us through into a room with a single door. Penebrygg twisted the handle this way and that.

  “I don’t seem to have the knack of it,” he said to Nat. “Perhaps you could try?”

  “Certainly.” Skirting around me, Nat leaned into the handle.

  “They change the setting each time,” Penebrygg said to me. “I often have trouble with it, but Nat’s a wonder with locks.”

  A delicate click: Nat’s work was done. We followed him into a vestibule, where his lantern revealed a small marble fireplace with a golden clock on the mantel. The filigree hands stood at ten minutes past one.

  “A little late, but no matter,” said Penebrygg softly as we approached a door built into the arch of the wall. He turned to me. “Not an easy audience, my dear, but do your best. A great deal hangs on it.”

  As I braced myself, he raised his hand and rapped on the door.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE INVISIBLE COLLEGE

  “A Chantress?”

  “That’s what I thought I heard Penebrygg say.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “See how young she is.”

  “Too young.”

  I stood before the assembled scholars in the small, windowless library, trying not to show how much their comments unnerved me. I had never before been the object of so much attention. Indeed, it had been many years since I even had seen so many people gathered in one place. Not the easiest audience, Penebrygg had said. He had understated the case.

  Everyone seemed to regard me with suspicion.

  Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite fair. One jovial young man with fleshy hands had brightened when I walked into the room, and a man I recognized as Isaac Oldville regarded me with a restless curiosity. But most of the thirty-odd faces in the room bore expressions of dismay and disbelief.

  “My esteemed colleagues.” A few paces away from me, Sir Barnaby held up an elegant hand. He looked exactly like the picture I’d seen in Penebrygg’s head: an immaculately dressed, rotund gentleman, who had a sprightly air despite his ivory cane and bad foot. “I present to you Miss Lucy Marlowe, whom Dr. Penebrygg assures me is a true Chantress.”

  The room stirred with comment. An anxious voice said, “What if she is a fraud?”

  “Or worse yet, a spy?” someone else added.

  Until then, I had been too afraid myself to see the fear in the faces before me. But I saw it now.

  Sir Barnaby held up his hand. “Silence, please. The Council would not have invited her unless we were convinced it was safe. And Dr. Penebrygg is prepared to submit proof of his claim before you.”

  The men quieted, though I could still feel their fear and uncertainty.

  Sir Barnaby waved his hand at me. “Miss Marlowe? If you will please show us your arm?”

  All eyes fixed on me. My hand shook as I rolled back my sleeve and exposed my Chantress mark for the
m to see.

  “Look!”

  “The spiral!”

  “By Jove . . .”

  “It might only be a scar—”

  Mistrustful, they rose from their seats and crowded close for a better view. Not one of them touched me, but their scrutiny—avid and minute and utterly dispassionate—made me feel as if I were a butterfly or a beetle, trapped for observation.

  Rattled, I turned my head, looking for a familiar face. Penebrygg and Sir Barnaby had been swallowed up by the throng, but I spotted Nat through a gap in the crowd. He stood by a bookcase at the side of the room, his dark eyebrows drawn in a frown. Although he seemed to be keeping to himself, I wondered if he had somehow poisoned the audience against me.

  “Perhaps you would be so good as to return to your seats now?” Sir Barnaby called out. “There is more to come.”

  Chairs and voices rumbled as the men took their seats. “Can she read the manuscript?” someone called out.

  “She failed on the first attempt, I understand,” Sir Barnaby said.

  I saw many eyes narrow.

  “If she can’t read it, what good is her mark to us?” a man said.

  “If it is a genuine mark,” another added. “What kind of tests has she been subjected to?”

  “Be patient, my friends,” Sir Barnaby said. “All will become clear. Dr. Penebrygg, will you demonstrate?”

  “With Miss Marlowe’s consent, yes.”

  At the sound of Penebrygg’s courteous voice, my confidence began to return. Here, at least, was someone who believed in me and wished me well. “I am ready, sir,” I said, and he explained to the audience what they were about to see.

  At the mention of mind-reading, the men murmured—not exactly with displeasure this time, but with a blend of alarm and anticipation. When I revealed the ruby and pulled it over my head, they quieted again.

  To me, however, the room was anything but silent. As I set the ruby down on a small table beside me, notes eddied around me, elusive and maddening. Though I tried not to listen to them, they distracted me, and I found it difficult to recall the moonbriar song. Fortunately, Sir Barnaby had given me a new vial of the seeds on my arrival. I opened it now.