Always a Witch

by Carolyn Maccullough

  It doesn't seem like exactly the right moment for that question.

  Getting through Jessica's door while balancing a large tray with a cup, a saucer, and a full pot of hot chocolate, not to mention a basket full of bread and dishes of butter and jam, is no small feat. But I manage, even though the pot lurches once and the cup rattles in its saucer.

  "Good morning, Lady Jessica," I say in a singsong voice that I imagine a lady's maid would use. I figure I might as well play my part to the fullest. I glance toward the bed, expecting to see her blinking sleepily at me. But the bed is empty. Instead, she is standing by the fire, which Dawn or Lily must have lit earlier this morning. And she's fully dressed. Okay, good, that makes my job easier, since I was wondering how to deal with all the little hooks and buttons and thingies.

  Setting down the tray on a small side table, I say, "I'm your new—"

  "Yes. I know who you are. Agatha Smiterdone." Her fingers clutch a piece of paper.

  "Smithsdale," I interject, but she barely nods. She strides toward the fire, then whirls suddenly and comes toward me. I step back. It's hard to reconcile this girl with the one I saw in her mother's study. She is full of restless movements and a sharp, jumbling energy. Stopping a few feet away from me, she studies my face intently. I wait for the prickle across my skin to let me know that she's trying to use her Talent on me, but I feel nothing. Besides, it seems her Talent is being able to heal, so unless she wants to fix the scrape on my thumb that I just got when trying to open the door, there's not much else she could do.

  "I need your help," she says finally.

  I blink. "Of course, my lady. Would you like to change your dress or ... your hairstyle?" I finish weakly, examining the sloppy bun Jessica's pulled her hair into. Definitely not one of the hairstyles Rosie taught me.

  She shakes her head, although she does put one hand up to her hair as if to check that it's still piled on her head. "I need to leave the house. Without anyone noticing."

  "Oh," I say, more interested now. I glance toward the door, which I managed to shut with my hip. "But your music lesson starts in—"

  She fans away my words by waving the piece of paper through the air. "I canceled it. Unbeknownst to my mother."

  "What would you like me to do?" I say carefully, trying to ignore the wisps of buttery-smelling steam that curl up from the breadbasket on the table. when I stumbled into the kitchen, Mr. Tynsdell informed me in a pinched voice that I was too late for breakfast and needed to get these things up to Lady Jessica in a hurry.

  "I'll be leaving the house by the side entrance. I need you to go ahead of me and let me know if the way is clear. And then"—she takes a tremulous breath—"and then, I'll need a chaperone. I'll need you to come with me..." Her words trail away and she blinks rapidly. Then she recovers and adds, "Simple enough?"

  It doesn't really sound like a question.

  I nod, watch as she gathers up a little black purse and a shawl and bustles toward the door.

  "Oh, and Agatha?" she says when we're at the door. "I know servants like to gossip, but truly, if you mention this to anyone..." She narrows her eyes at me.

  Suddenly, I get the oddest feeling that she's been practicing these words in front of her mirror all morning. I try to look suitably intimidated. "Of course not, my lady," I murmur.

  She bites her lip, then nods once and motions for me to step ahead of her.

  We skim along the silent hallway of the second floor, our footsteps swallowed up by the thick maroon carpeting, and hurry down the wide staircase. So far, so good. As we cross the gold and white foyer, gleaming in the morning sunshine, the light sound of laughter spills from the door to our left.

  "Mother's entertaining the ladies from her club," Jessica mutters. "She can't stand them, but ... keep going," she hisses at me as I pause.

  Finally, we reach the side door. Motioning for me to go first, Jessica falls in behind me, so close that she's breathing on my neck. "All clear?" she whispers, and I nod once and we slip out the door, shutting it behind us with barely a sound.

  "Where are we going?" I ask a little breathlessly as Jessica cuts up an alleyway and then darts across the street, narrowly avoiding two horse-drawn carriages.

  "To the circus," she gasps back.

  "Step up, step up, step up, ladies and gentlemen, one and all," bawls a man in a dark suit. He is standing on a milk crate, and above him hangs a bright banner. THE ONE AND ONLY TIMMONS FAMILY CIRCUS is spelled out in curling blue and gold letters. The man's hands move in a blur, exchanging bills and coins and tickets as Jessica comes to a halt. She turns her head rapidly, scanning the crowds, and then goes very still and she seems to stare at a tall young man dressed in a black suit. He has taken his bowler hat off and is fanning his face with it even though there's already a brisk wind blowing.

  "Mr. Finnegan," Jessica calls in a high voice, and I recall the name that La Spider threw at her in the study.

  "Jessica," the man says, and comes toward us at a half run. "I almost thought you weren't coming."

  "I wasn't going to," she says stiffly, her face slightly averted. "But your letter ... I ... Here," she says, and abruptly thrusts her closed fist toward him. A bewildered expression crosses his face and then he reaches out. A little cameo pin winks from her hand into his.

  "I ... don't understand."

  "But you do," she says, gazing at him steadily now. "It's over, William. I can't indulge this any longer."

  "If it's your family, I..."

  "I'm engaged to be married." The words seem chiseled out of stone.

  "But you said you'd break it off." His voice trails away as he studies her set features. He pauses for a moment, his eyes skipping over me, and I look down at my feet. "At least, Jessica, let me take you to the circus. For one hour. It's all I ask. Please," he whispers as she opens her mouth again.

  The smell of sawdust and sweat fills the air, as well as the scent of something burning. Glancing sideways, I watch as a half-naked man painted in blue symbols swallows a whole torch full of fire to the accompaniment of gasps from the crowd. I really hope the burning smell isn't coming from him.

  "One hour," she says finally. "Agatha will accompany us," she adds with a jerk of her head.

  "I could just wait here for you, my lady," I say desperately. In one hour, I could ask at least one hundred people if they know the Greenes.

  "No," Jessica says coldly.

  For a second I think about walking away. What could she do to me? I'm not here in 1887 just to brush hair and pick out ball gowns. And then I remember Alistair will inevitably return to the Knight house. If I can stop him from ever reaching La Spider, that's accomplishing something.

  I nod and fall in three paces behind them as they head toward the ticket line. They'd better be buying me a ticket.

  Once inside the small park, I follow at a discreet distance, sidestepping hordes of people. I've figured out that we're just a few blocks south and east of Hell's Kitchen, which happens to be the home of one of my favorite flea markets. But judging from the pretty shabbily dressed people and the rows and rows of warehouses and shacks lining the park—okay, park is stretch: a small green space—it's not quite yet the neighborhood that I know.

  A group of children is gathered in front of a small ring where an elephant, tethered to a stake by one foot, is sitting back on its hind legs, almost like a person. A pink and white teacup is cradled in its trunk, and as the children watch, it raises and lowers its trunk as if drinking.

  "How charming," Jessica cries, her voice light and happy. She flings her arm out, tugging on Mr. Finnegan's sleeve, and they stop to watch as the elephant accepts a slice of bread from its handler, tucking it carefully into its gaping mouth.

  As the crowd claps enthusiastically, my eyes are drawn upward to the small tree, which offers a little shade on the dusty clearing. A large black crow perches on an overhanging branch, its head cocked, its yellow glass eyes pinned to the scene below. Its very stillness seems off somehow, and
I stare at it for so long that I look away just in time to see Jessica and Mr. Finnegan moving toward the striped tent along with another wave of people. As I hurry after them, I glance back once. The crow glides silently off the branch, circles once, and settles on the round dome of the striped tent. It points its beak downward and stares at me.

  That does it. I reach out with my mind and pull hard.

  With a startled squawk, the crow bursts into flight, then half falls, half flies down the side of the tent to the ground. In a millisecond the bird's form blurs and lengthens. I find myself now staring at a girl my age, her long red hair loose over her shoulders. She glares up at me as I take three steps closer. Just then a small child blunders into my side, his outstretched finger pointing toward the girl on the ground.

  "Mama, Mama," he babbles. "That lady. She was a bird. She—"A woman wearing a patched blue dress, with another infant locked under her arm, reaches down and gives the boy a slap across his ear. His words abruptly transform into a shriek.

  "Don't run off like that," she says, giving me a harried look. "Begging your pardon, miss," she mutters, and then tugs her wailing child away.

  "But she was a bird," he sobs again.

  I turn back to find that the girl has climbed to her feet and is brushing the dust off her plain gray dress. Her hair tumbles forward over her shoulders. Her skin, lightly freckled, is flushed either with heat or emotion.

  "Who are you?" I say immediately.

  She cocks her head at me, studies me with green-gold eyes. "I could ask you the same thing," she says at last.

  "I saw you turn from a crow into a girl."

  She shifts her shoulders. "Are you sure about that? Appearances can be deceiving." But a thread of curiosity or fear is running under her light words, and her eyes never stop examining my face.

  I hesitate, wanting to ask her if she is connected in any way to the man who I saw standing on the street corner. Then I blurt out, "Are you from the Greene family?"

  She doesn't answer and her face doesn't change, but her upper body inclines back just a degree.

  "You are, aren't you?" I take a step closer. "Please, I need to see you. All of you. It's urgent. You're in danger."

  The girl's eyes narrow. "You come here with Jessica Knight and you want to warn me about danger. The others don't trust you. A stranger will come from a faraway time, bringing the end of our days as we know them."

  "That's Alistair, not me!" I practically scream at her.

  "Alistair?" the girl asks.

  "You read that in the book, right?" I try to remember the exact wording that both my grandmother and Rowena had read. "Doesn't it say that a stranger comes to town in the dying days of the year? And that he knows much more than he should. He? Him? It's a man. His name's Alistair Knight."

  But she is shaking her head. "Only a stranger, seen entering the house of the Knights. And that death and destruction follow her."

  "That's not right," I whisper. And then I remember my sister warning me just how hard it was to read the book, to make even a few words appear. Apparently, these Greenes have only seen that a stranger was coming. "Please. I have to meet your family. Where do you live? Just tell me that much."

  "Agatha," Jessica calls, and I want to scream at the other girl's timing. When I don't turn immediately, Jessica calls again, "Agatha." This time her voice is sharp and precise, a faint echo of La Spider's. I turn to see Jessica and Mr. Finnegan standing at the tent entrance. Mr. Finnegan looks confused, while Jessica's eyes are burning. She lifts her chin in what appears to be a nod, but the gesture is not aimed at me.

  I glance back at the crow girl, who has now moved a few steps away, her face a shuttered window. She inclines her head back at Jessica and then her eyes flick back to my face. "I'll find you again."

  Before I can answer, she slips off into the crowd.

  Turning, I walk back to Jessica, who immediately hisses, "What did she say to you?" Her eyes are narrowed, and suddenly her resemblance to her mother is striking.

  I do my best to appear confused. "The young lady? I stepped on her foot so I was apologizing to her," I explain swiftly, hoping that Jessica didn't see the girl change from a bird. "Do you know her?" I ask now. "I didn't mean any harm, my lady, I just—"

  "Never mind," Jessica says shortly, and turns back to Mr. Finnegan.

  The rest of the hour passes in a blur. I barely take in the trapeze artists and the prancing horses and the lion tamers. Instead, I keep a respectable three feet behind Jessica and Mr. Finnegan. "I'll find you again." Please, please, please let her be telling the truth.

  "Where to now?" Mr. Finnegan is saying, gesturing with his free arm toward the wide swath of green tents that we haven't yet entered. But Jessica shakes her head, biting down on her lower lip.

  "I have to go," she says at last. "They'll already be wondering where I am, and—"

  "It's not been an hour yet," Mr. Finnegan says, but still she pulls herself free.

  Her shoulders curve downward. "It doesn't matter," she says at last. "An hour, a week, a year—none of it makes any difference." Then she straightens up, takes three steps toward me. "Come, Agatha. We're going back."

  I nod, trying not to notice how crushed Mr. Finnegan looks.

  "Jessica," he says softly, catching at her hand. "Please—"

  "It's over, William," she says, her voice flat. "Once and for all. Please don't contact me again."

  "Then keep this," he murmurs, and swiftly presses the brooch back into her hand. "To remember me."

  She nods once, then walks away from him, her back held in a needle-straight line.

  I throw an awkward half smile at William. Believe me, you're better off far away from these people. I almost tell him that. But I decide to play lady's maid just a little longer and follow Jessica instead.

  Jessica is silent as we slip back through the crowded streets, her face carefully blank, and I realize she is assembling her mask again. The change from the giddy and laughing girl of half an hour ago is startling.

  I'm reminded of how I used to assemble my very own such armor anytime I walked into my house at Hedgerow. Before I knew I had a Talent, when I thought I had no place in my own family. The idea that Jessica Knight and I could have anything in common is so weird that I'm almost grateful to the horse-drawn truck that is barreling down on us, as it provides a welcome distraction from that uncomfortable thought.

  Finally, we turn off Madison and reach the relative quiet of Twenty-seventh Street with its pristine rows of brownstones. Storm clouds are now scuttling across the sky, and the breeze has picked up, outlining our legs through our skirts. Jessica and I approach the side entrance cautiously, but no one seems around at this hour. Looking up, I pinpoint two birds perched on the gabled window of the neighboring house. I reach out and tug at them, but nothing happens. They're only birds.

  "This household is ... very different from your last, I imagine," she says finally as we reach the black gate.

  "All households are different," I say neutrally. I glance over my shoulder, but except for a few strollers and a woman pushing a pram, the street is still. No crows perched in any of the trees.

  Then I gaze sideways at Jessica, who still has made no move to go inside the gate.

  Instead, her eyes are filling with tears and her fingers are clutching convulsively around the little cameo pin. Before I can think of what to say, she blinks once, twice, and then her calm veneer shifts back into place. "Here," she blurts out, and presses the cameo into my hand.

  I stare down at the woman's engraved face, at the tendrils of hair that curl against her ivory neck. Without thinking, I press the side of the pin, and the face slides open to reveal a small watch inside. A steady ticking, almost too soft to hear, brushes at my ears.

  "It's sweet, isn't it?" Jessica murmurs, her eyes downcast. "It must have taken a month's wages for him to buy it."

  "Are you sure you—"

  "Keep it," she murmurs. "And take my advice," she says softly.
"Leave this house. As soon as you can." And with that she slips into the side gate, leaving me no choice but to follow her.

  Somehow I manage to get through the rest of the day without any major mistakes. True, Jessica wrenched a petticoat away from me when I fumbled the laces, but other than that she was silent as I helped her get ready for her afternoon of coaching with whomever she was supposed to do that with. In fact, I started to think of her as a human-size doll that I had to dress up in different outfits, even though I kind of always hated dolls when I was little.

  Now, after an excruciatingly early dinner with Rosie, Cook, and Mr. Tynsdell, who glared at me every time I raised the fork to my mouth, I am sitting in the tiny upstairs room wondering what to do with the rest of the evening and the night ahead of me. Jessica already told me not to wait up for her. "I don't need any help this evening," she added, probably because I looked startled. I kept my mouth shut and nodded because I had no idea that a lady's maid was supposed to wait up.

  Darkness presses close against the little dormer window and the wind buffets against the glass panes. A chill seeps into the room. Shivering, I cross to the window and stare out at the street. Carriages are rolling across the cobblestones, the faint clatter rising to meet my ears. All sorts of people are bustling across the streets, lingering to talk to each other in twos or threes despite the cold November evening.

  "Thinking of jumping?" Rosie says behind me, and I do jump, smacking my head against the glass.

  I glare at her, but she laughs. Her cheeks are tinged pink and her hair is loosened a little. "Where did you go after dinner?" I ask, but she only winks at me.

  "Can't know all my secrets, Agatha!" she says gaily. Crossing to the cracked mirror above our dresser, she gazes into it while pulling back her hair into a smooth knot. She reaches into her drawer, withdraws a little pot, and dusts something onto her forehead and nose. The sweet smell of talcum powder flitters into the air between us, and suddenly, I swallow hard and for one instant envision myself back in my dorm room at school with the real Agatha as we both glitter ourselves up for a night out in the city.