CHAPTER TWELVE
Hal hurried forward, dropping down beside me, his face wide-eyed and pale in the lantern light. “Are you hurt?”
I blinked at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened, and drew in a shaky breath. My teeth were chattering badly, and my arm burned like it was on fire; my thoughts were a jumbled mess of fear and confusion, and I simply stared at Hal, unable to speak.
“Is he all right?” Mr. Gilley’s trembling voice came from my other side. “I couldn’t get a clear shot at the thing—I was afraid I’d hit the lad.”
“You did right.” Hal handed Mr. Gilley the lantern and bent over me again, shaking my shoulders gently. “Jem? Can you hear me?”
“How did you do that?” I said hoarsely.
He frowned at me a moment, confused, then shook his head. “The fire spell,” he said. “On the lantern. Never mind that. Are you all right?”
I took another deep breath, trying to calm my jangled nerves. Apart from the pain in my arm and a lingering ache in my chest, I seemed to be in one piece. “I—I think so.”
Hal put an arm behind my shoulders, helping me to sit. He grimaced at the blood on my sleeve, and tied his handkerchief in a makeshift bandage around the bite on my arm. “Can you stand?”
I nodded, and he helped me to my feet, tucking my injured arm into my jacket and my other arm over his shoulders. He turned to Mr. Gilley, who still held the lantern. “I think we’d better get him inside.”
Mr. Gilley nodded, lifting the lantern, and led the way back to the house. By the time we reached it, my arm felt as though it would fall off, and I was shaking so badly that I could hear my teeth clattering. Mrs. Gilley met us at the door, took one look at me, and became in an instant a very formidable nurse. She directed my brother to set me down on a cot, and barked orders at her children to bring cloths and hot water.
Hal set me down as directed, and I lay back against the cot. My head was swimming; every movement sent a spike of pain up my arm. Hal helped me out of my coat and jacket, and when he pushed back the sleeve of my shirt, I had my first clear look at the bite. It was neither deep nor very bloody, but a web of dark lines spread out from it, as though the skin had shattered around the wound.
“What is that?” I sat up, fear licking at the back of my throat. “What’s wrong with my arm?”
“Lie still, Jem.” Hal pushed me back onto the cot, and turned to Mr. Gilley. “The yarbwoman—fetch Mrs. Ogham. Quickly.”
Mr. Gilley nodded, and turned to go, but Mrs. Gilley set down the bowl of water she was carrying and shook her head. “It’s bad enough to have you magicians here—I won’t have that woman in my house.”
“Yes, you will.” Hal’s voice was sharp, a shade too loud for the small house, and Mrs. Gilley stared at him with wide eyes. He ran a hand over his face. “Please. He’s—it’s the magic that’s made his wound like that. I don’t have the herbs to treat it—but she will.”
Mrs. Gilley looked at me, then sighed. After a moment she nodded, and Mr. Gilley pulled his cap back on and headed out once more into the darkness. Mrs. Gilley pulled a chair over by the cot and laid a cool cloth on my forehead. She looked back to the doorway, where several of her children were peeking curiously, and scowled.
“Go on, you lot,” she said. “It’s time you were abed.”
The biggest of the girls nodded, and took the hand of her youngest sibling, murmuring quietly to the rest, and the heads disappeared from the doorway. Mrs. Gilley turned back to Hal, her mouth set in a thin line.
“I hope you haven’t brought a curse upon this house,” she said, keeping her voice low. “If this magic harms my children . . . .”
Hal did not look up at her. He was frowning at the wound on my arm, a deep line between his eyes. “It won’t,” he said wearily.
She took another cloth and began bathing the wound. The pain sparked up to my shoulder, and I groaned. Hal patted my shoulder reassuringly, though the frown did not leave his face. I could see that he was frightened, and that frightened me, almost as much as the black streaks on my arm.
“What’s wrong with me, Hal?” I stared down the length of my arm and felt myself shaking. “Why does it look like that?”
Hal squeezed my shoulder and turned to look at me, his frown smoothing out into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right, as soon as the yarbwoman gets here.”
“But what is it?” My voice shook; Hal didn’t want me to know what he was afraid of, and that frightened me worst of all. “Just tell me!”
The false smile left his face, and he regarded me solemnly for a moment, before crouching down next to the cot so that he was facing me at eye level. He glanced over at Mrs. Gilley, still bathing my wound.
“The beast is under a curse,” he said, keeping his voice low enough that only I could hear him. “When it bit you, it left a trace of dark magic in the wound.”
A shiver ran down my spine. “Am I—am I cursed now?”
“No,” he said, squeezing my shoulder again. “But we have to treat the magic as well as the wound.”
I looked back at the wound that Mrs. Gilley was now wrapping a clean cloth around, staring at the dark web around it; I fancied that I could see it spreading even before my eyes. Fear churned in my stomach.
“Jem.” Hal shook my shoulder. “Look at me. You’ll be all right. The yarbwoman will be able to stop it from spreading.”
“But she won’t be able to take it away,” I said.
“No,” he said. “That part’s up to me.”
I turned back to him. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll have to break the curse,” he said. “You can help with that.”
“How?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, what did the beast look like? Was there anything particular about it that you noticed?”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember anything beyond the fear and pain and sudden fire, and saw in my mind a picture of the blazing blue eyes that had stared into mine—and then, with a sudden sharp clarity, a second pair of blue eyes, burning with contempt. My own eyes snapped open.
“Its eyes,” I said. “They were just like Cecilia’s.”
He gave me one of his half-smiles, a real one this time, and patted my shoulder. “Well done, Jem. That does help.”
I frowned at him, wondering what he meant, but I had no chance to ask him, for at that moment, Mr. Gilley burst into the room, cold air following him. He leaned on the doorframe, red-faced and out of breath.
“Well, I’ve brought her,” he said.
Mrs. Ogham appeared in the doorway behind him, looking windblown. Her eyes lighted on me, lying on the cot, and she pushed past Mr. Gilley. “What’s happened?”
Hal stood up, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and gave a brief account of our encounter with the beast. Mrs. Ogham moved over beside the cot, taking my arm from Mrs. Gilley, who resigned her chair without comment, but not without a sour grimace at Mrs. Ogham’s back.
The yarbwoman unwound the bandage that Mrs. Gilley had wrapped around my arm and pulled a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket. She gestured vaguely back at Mr. Gilley. “Bring my bag.”
Mr. Gilley shifted himself from the doorframe and ambled out of view. Mrs. Gilley remained standing behind the yarbwoman, arms folded over her chest. “What that boy needs is a clean dressing and a good night’s sleep.”
Mrs. Ogham turned my arm over, tracing the dark web with one finger. “He needs a good deal more than that.” She looked over at my brother. “I can only do so much.”
“I know.” Hal grimaced. “Never mind—I’ll do the rest.”
She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head. “This is a dangerous path you’re walking, Mr. Bishop. Have a care—especially if you mean to bring this boy along with you.”
Hal frowned at her, the deep line reappearing between his eyes. “Don’t presume to tell me what I should do with my apprentice.”
“I’m not speaking of you
r apprentice,” she said sharply. “I’m speaking of your brother. Surely you’ve noticed he’s more sensitive to magic than you are.”
The frown left Hal’s face, and he looked at Mrs. Ogham carefully. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Father noticed it as well. What of it?”
It was almost enough to make me forget the pain in my arm. I had never thought that Father knew anything about my magic; he had certainly never said anything to me. But he had. He had known, and he had spoken of it to Hal, but not to me. I swallowed back a lump in my throat.
Mr. Gilley returned with Mrs. Ogham’s bag, and she began rifling through it. “He’ll draw trouble,” she said, not looking up. “Like moths to a flame, or flies to honey. Spirits can tell when someone’s sensitive like that.”
“Then it is all the more important that he learn what to do when trouble finds him,” Hal said quietly. He looked at me as he spoke. I turned away from him; I was too tired to think any more about what he might mean.
Mrs. Ogham made a disdainful sort of noise, but did not offer further comment. She drew a jar from the depths of her bag and began slathering some sort of ointment on my arm. It was strong-smelling and cold against my skin, but the pain instantly died down into a dull ache, concentrated around the bite. She wound the bandage back around my arm, and handed the jar to Hal.
“This should keep the blight from spreading,” she said. She dug into her bag again and brought forth a packet, holding it out to Mrs. Gilley, who wrinkled up her nose.
“What is that ghastly smell?”
Mrs. Ogham shook the packet. “It’s a tea. Make a cup for the boy—it’ll help him sleep.”
Mrs. Gilley sniffed, but took the offered packet and disappeared from through the doorway. The yarbwoman looked at my arm, now encased in its bandage, and shook her head. “Mrs. Gilley’s right to say he needs a good rest. Mind he gets it. And mind he doesn’t use that arm until it’s cured.”
Hal nodded absently. He still had his hands in his pockets, and was frowning down at his feet while he rocked back on his heels. Mrs. Ogham’s earlier words had plainly disturbed him, and I wondered vaguely what she had meant by saying that I would draw trouble. I had no energy to think; my head felt heavy, and now that the pain was gone from my arm I wanted nothing more than to sleep. But I had so many questions for Hal.
Mrs. Gilley returned with the tea. It smelled of licorice, and of other things I could not identify, a strong medicinal scent that filled the little room. Hal helped me to sit up, and I took the cup, drinking it down to its dregs. A pleasant warmth filled my chest, and I felt my eyelids slipping closed. I lay back down on the cot.
I was left alone in the room, while Mrs. Gilley and my brother saw Mrs. Ogham out. I heard muffled voices and the sound of the door opening and closing, then I heard someone come back into the room and sit down beside the cot. I heard a scraping sound and smelled the sulfurous odor of a match being struck, and the scent of sage and tobacco filled the little room.
I opened my eyes and looked up at my brother, sitting next to the cot in the darkness, the bowl of his pipe glowing orange. “Hal, what did she mean by that? What did Father know?”
He reached over and patted my shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”
I doubted that, but I was too tired to argue. I closed my eyes and in an instant, I was asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When I woke in the morning, I was alone. Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows of the little room, and I shivered as I sat up. The door creaked open, and Mrs. Gilley came through with a tray.
“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, setting the tray on a table beside the cot. “I’ve brought you some breakfast.”
I glanced absently at the tray. It certainly looked appealing enough, but I had no appetite. “Thank you, but I’m not very hungry. Is my brother about?”
She frowned, and came around to the side of the cot, laying a hand on my forehead. “Well, no fever,” she said, clicking her tongue. “But a young person should have an appetite.”
I shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling vaguely guilty. “Well . . . leave the tray here. Perhaps I’ll want it later.”
She smiled, patting my cheek. “That’s a good fellow. As for your brother, he went out with Mr. Gilley this morning. He should be back soon.”
She left the room. I went over and sat at the table where she had set the tray, but I made no effort to try the breakfast. My thoughts were agitated, and I was impatient for Hal to return. I thought of the blue eyes of both Cecilia and the beast, of Mrs. Ogham’s warning to Hal, and felt a cold lump in my stomach thinking of Father.
The porridge had congealed by the time I heard footsteps in the hall, and smelled the familiar odor of pipe tobacco and sage that announced my brother’s presence. He stepped into the room, bringing with him a cloud of smoke and a burst of chill air. His cheeks were red and his hair windblown; a fine dusting of snow rested on the shoulders of his coat.
He walked past me to the fireplace, glancing at the congealed porridge with a frown. He did not look at me as he held his hands out to the fireplace, flexing his fingers. “How are you feeling?”
“All right,” I said, looking down at the table and picking at a stray splinter. “Where have you been?”
He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I went out with Mr. Gilley. I wanted to see the spot where the beast attacked you.”
I made a non-committal noise in my throat and focused more closely on the splinter. My arm felt heavy in its sling, though it didn’t hurt anymore. “Hal . . . .”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I know. I owe you an explanation.”
I waited, while he moved over to the cot and sat down, running a hand over his forehead. The smoke from his pipe curled about his face. “I suppose you want to know about what Mrs. Ogham said first—about your magic.”
I looked at him, still absently poking at the splinter, and said nothing. I had learned long ago that pressing Hal for an explanation was no way to get him to speak. There was nothing for it but to wait until he was ready to explain.
He sighed again, taking his pipe out of his mouth and rolling it between his fingers. “You’ve always had a strong sense of magic. Even when you were a child—Father noticed it at once. He said it was a sign of great talent.”
“He never said so to me.” The splinter pricked my thumb, and I winced, sticking it in my mouth.
“He never had the chance.” Hal looked down at his feet. “He worried about it, though—he was afraid that you’d be taken advantage of. He asked me to look after you—to make certain you learned how to use your magic properly. It was one of the last sensible things he said to me.”
The lump was back in my throat, and I blinked rapidly against tears that were coming up in my eyes. I cleared my throat. “And what about—what about the other thing? About the spirits.”
“The reason you have such a strong sense is that you’re more—I don’t know quite how to put it—open to the spirit world,” he said. “It’s what will make you a great spell caster someday—you’ll never have trouble finding spirits. But it also leaves you vulnerable. It goes both directions, you see—the spirits have no trouble finding you.”
“Like the beast,” I said.
Hal looked up at me, a horrified expression on his face. “Jem, I never thought—I thought it would avoid the rifle. I expected it to come for me.”
I blinked at him. “That’s why you wanted to split up?”
“Well, yes.” He relit his pipe, and popped it back between his teeth. “I thought it would go for the obvious target—and as I appeared to be unprotected . . . .” He held his hand out, palm up.
I stared at him. “But that’s stupid.”
“I know.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I should have realized it would go after you instead—as Mrs. Ogham said, you’re like a beacon to these magical creatures. I simply never thought—but it wasn’t intentional, Jem. I nev
er meant for you . . . .”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, cutting him off. I was thinking of the way the dark magic had twined around my lungs, leaving me unable to call for help, and how it had put out my lantern. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Gilley’s warning shots, Hal would never have known to come to my aid. If it had gone for Hal instead—my stomach twisted. “You were alone—if you had been attacked, you’d be dead.”
“No.” He smiled around his pipe. “I had the lantern.”
“But it didn’t work.” I shivered, remembering the feeling of the magic closing in around me. “My lantern went out.”
“Did it?” He frowned. “We’ll have to work on that. You can’t let your mind be clouded by outside magic.”
I looked down at the table, poking at the splinter again. There was a long silence, only the sound of the wind outside, muted by the snow, filling the room. Hal stood again, going over to the fire once more, and stared into it for a long moment.
“There’s something else you ought to know,” he said, finally, running his hand across his forehead. He looked at my arm, encased in its sling, and grimaced. “Mrs. Ogham is right—this is a dangerous path. And if you’re going to walk it with me, you ought to know why.”
I went still, watching him, and said nothing. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, puffing smoke into the air.
“You were right,” he said quietly, without looking at me. “You’ve been right all along. This has always been about Father.”
It was the first time Hal had ever admitted I was right, but I didn’t feel quite the satisfaction I’d expected from it. There was a hollow feeling in my chest instead, a feeling of dread, wondering what I was about to learn of my father.
Hal began pacing, his hands still in his pockets. “I told you Father was working on something before he became ill. I wasn’t part of it—it was some sort of government secret. But while he worked on it, he became erratic—paranoid. He would watch out the windows, make the housekeeper check and recheck the locks every night. He spoke to me often of what I should do if anything should happen to him—what I should do with the practice, with you. But I could never get him to say why he was so afraid—all he would tell me was that he had found something.”
The Rowanwood Curse (Hal Bishop Mysteries Book 1) Page 10