Weather Witch ww-1

by Shannon Delany

  Holgate

  “You come from a proud tradition,” Bran said, tucking his hands behind his back and leaning forward to better look at the little girl. Her eyes wandered the space, her gaze bouncing from item to item and drinking each in almost as often and fully as she drank up the water he kept handy. “You’ve gotten dehydrated,” he said. “I thought Maude would take better care of you.”

  “She took excellent care of me, Mister—papá,” the child corrected, rolling the horn cup between her hands. “She is sweet. My mother—God rest her soul—would have liked her.”

  Bran paused and nodded agreement. “Yes. I feel certain she would have. Here.” He took the cup and set it on his desk’s slanting surface. “This is my main library. Here there are three rules you must follow: listen, obey, and never, never open the door to the laboratory. It is here that you will help me do the gentle parts of what Making means.”

  “What are the gentle parts?”

  “Research. You will fetch me books and learn to read and tidy up as we work,” Bran said.

  “And the not so gentle parts of Making?” she asked, her eyes so big and bright his heart thumped oddly.

  “There are parts of my job that are—”

  “Too hard for me?”

  “Too hard for you to see,” he clarified. “It is not an easy thing I do.”

  “Is it hard for you?” she asked, her voice soft as rainsong.

  He straightened, twisting his fingers together before him. “It used to be,” he finally said, his voice matching hers in gentleness. “Yes. It used to be nearly impossible.” But he smacked his hands together and she gave a little hop. “But. We both come from a proud tradition,” he assured her, perhaps more to assure himself than the blond little sprite before him. Why did the words trouble him so much now?

  They were hardly a lie …

  His father had said the same words every day that Bran could remember. And, if nothing else good might be said of his father, it could always be said he was honest.

  Brutally so.

  Philadelphia

  Rowen couldn’t remember a time without Jordan. It was strange knowing there was no Jordan to call upon, no Jordan to joke with, no Jordan to frustrate to the point he swore steam would pour from her ears …

  No Jordan to confound.

  And no Jordan to court.

  He played with his hair a bit more, focusing in the mirror with fierce determination deep-set in his brow as he ran his brush through it again. He paused, staring at “fierce determination” reflected back at him, and he snorted. Such an expression would give him wrinkles prematurely. And although wrinkles on a man were a distinguishing mark of character (whereas on a woman they were simply ugly) Rowen did not care to add any character to his face until he was at least forty. Or fifty if he was fortunate. So he relaxed every muscle in his face and stared slack jawed into the mirror.

  “Young sir.” Jonathan’s voice startled him from the other side of his door. “You have a visitor, young sir.”

  Rowen opened the door and arched an eyebrow. Thinking better of the wrinkle that too would eventually bring, he slid his eyebrow back into place and stared flatly at Jonathan. “Who is it at this hour?”

  Jonathan smirked. “At this hour? It is nigh unto one in the afternoon, sir.”

  Rowen grinned. “Well, that explains why I am so famished.” He reached out and smacked Jonathan on the back. “And just who is here visiting me?”

  “Lady Catrina of House Hollindale.”

  “Sweet Jesus. What a way to ruin a man’s appetite.” He dropped his arm from around Jonathan and rubbed at his brow. “Why is Catrina here?”

  “It seems your good mother sent for her.”

  “Of course.” He groaned.

  “Your good mother has a stake in a successful match being made of you,” Jonathan pointed out. “If you rise, she will be better taken care of in her advancing age.”

  “I am well aware of my mother’s grasping nature,” Rowen assured. “And quite unimpressed with it.”

  “Catrina may be a bit of a reach.”

  Rowen snorted. “Perhaps according to rank, but…”

  “Understood, young sir. She does seem to be quite smitten with you. I daresay she has been for some years.”

  They walked down the hallway side by side, Rowen shaking his head. “It matters not one whit. Not any of it.”

  “Because you are in love with Lady Jordan?”

  Rowen stopped dead and, turning, stared at him. “I am not in love with Jordan.”

  “Right, right,” Jonathan said. “My mistake.”

  “You could send her away.”

  “Would you wish me to? Your lady mother would be incensed.”

  Rowen sighed. “No, no. But do bring us some sandwiches from the kitchen, please. With cucumber aplenty.”

  “But, sir … Cucumber and you…”

  Rowen’s smile slipped to one side of his face. “Agree as much as Catrina and I do.”

  * * *

  That day Lady Astraea slept soundly. She did not cry out, she did not die, she showed no sign of fever—if anything, she showed so little sign of life Laura was puzzled about the true nature of her existence. As far as Laura could tell her ladyship had not even rolled or moved in bed since John first placed her there the night before.

  Laura gently removed the pillow from beneath her ladyship’s head, fluffed it, and reset it. Then she moved around the room dusting and adjusting the positions of things so it did not seem so absolutely unlived in. She returned to her lady’s side and carefully unwrapped the bandages on her arms, laying the skin bare to the air’s caress. It was odd knowing how little time had passed and yet how healed the flesh was already.

  Laura applied the salve to her arms and rewrapped them. It was not impossible that if she slept a few more days and the salve continued its miraculous work her wounds would be completely closed—perhaps even to the point no mark remained.

  * * *

  That evening found Rowen on a table, arms wrapped around Kenneth Lorrington and Chadwick Skellish, two of his like-ranked fellows, while belting out a song few of them remembered when sober and Rowen only recalled when drunk off his ass. But drunk off his ass he was and his friends didn’t mind because at least Rowen was moving forward—in a sodden and weaving sort of way, but still it was forward. Never had “The Apparition of a Dandy” been so boldly sung and the regular crowd knew, if Rowen stayed on, he’d follow it up with “All for Me Grog.”

  Rowen released his friends, watching them waver a moment beside him, and then swung his arms wildly, the crowd in the tavern joining in on the chorus as the bartender clanked an empty tankard on the bar in time to the song. They roared at the end and Rowen swept them a bow and tumbled off the table and into the surprised arms of several men and their ladies.

  Well, not so much ladies as wenches, Rowen reassessed, tearing his eyes away from their overly displayed décolletage as he apologized for his clumsiness. The women grinned at him, one running a hand over his stubbly cheek and saying through a laugh and a haze of ale-scented breath, “You can tumble into me any time, love.”

  “Men tumble into you too easily, you sly thing,” her companion teased. She placed a finger in Rowen’s dimple and smiled, wiggling her eyebrows at him. “You should come pay us a visit later this evening…”

  Kenneth hopped off the table and, swinging an arm over Rowen’s shoulders, belched in his ear. “Emphasis on the pay,” he said with a laugh.

  The women tittered but denied nothing and Rowen, swinging around to seek a new source of fun, knocked into the back of a well-dressed man who responded with a string of well-used curses.

  “Apologies, good sir,” Rowen said, realizing the man’s drink had spilled across his front.

  “Apologies?” the other countered. They locked gazes. “Apologies!” The man grinned, lips twisting like snakes, and he said, “You cannot begin to apologize to the likes of someone like me, Rowen Burchette. Not any
more.”

  Rowen cocked his head. “What mean you?”

  “I mean, boy, that you are so low of station now—having nearly become engaged to that whore’s offspring—that nothing you say comes close to correcting the dishonor your mere presence brings to a room.”

  “So low of station—” Chadwick rounded on the man, but Rowen thrust his hand between them and focused as keenly as one in his cups might on the narrow-faced man before him.

  “Whore’s offspring?” he asked as if he’d gone hard of hearing. Rowen blinked and Chadwick stepped back, recognizing the look on his friend’s face.

  “You heard me, lout.”

  Rowen merely blinked again, but Chadwick and Kenneth noted the faint lowering of his brow and the way his jaw jutted forward—the slightest bit more pronounced.

  “Jordan Astraea is the result of a whorish pairing. Until her the Astraea clan had been clean of magick’s taint and now—they have produced a Weather Witch? Morgan Astraea’s heritage is clean yet he is ruined because of a woman’s indiscretion. And your trollop—”

  Rowen seemed to swell in size, casting a larger shadow across the man.

  Kenneth stepped back, spreading his arms wide to signal the crowd back, too.

  “Trollop?” Rowen spit the word out in two sharp bites.

  The man snorted. “So was it fun, I wonder—spending time with a Weather Witch? Cavorting? I’ve heard they burn like wildfire in the bedroo—”

  The crack of Rowen’s fist into the man’s jaw stopped his talking. And caused him to fly back half a pace. He fell against the table Rowen had so recently danced his way across. Rowen rubbed his knuckles and glared at the other man.

  His opponent was rubbing his jaw, his eyes huge as he found his balance and stood once more, shocked. His friends patted his shoulders, brushed off his back and whispered words of—Rowen couldn’t make them out as the blood pulsed in his ears—were they advising him to back down or encouraging him forward? Rowen didn’t care. Insults rolled through his head like they were connected in one continuous string.

  “Breathe, Rowen, breathe,” Chadwick said, watching the other man spread his feet into a fighter’s stance and tap the place where his sword would have normally hung.

  “You,” Rowen said with a grunt. “Take back what you said about Jordan. Now.”

  “I will not,” the other said with an impertinent shake of his head. “I never apologize for speaking the truth.”

  Chadwick dug in his heels and held on as Rowen lugged him forward.

  Rowen was a bull preparing to charge, shoulders hunched, a mean gleam lighting his eyes. All he saw was the man before him.

  “Rowen, Rowennnn,” Chadwick warned.

  “Then I demand satisfaction.” Rowen ground out the words, his nose nearly pressed to the other man’s.

  The stranger scoffed. “So you received no such satisfaction from Jordan Astraea?” He laughed.

  Chadwick shook his head. There was a fine line between bold action and stupidity. And this man enjoyed bouncing straight across it.

  The man retorted, “You must be the only one she didn’t satisfy from what I’ve heard—”

  And then Chadwick was flying forward, unable to keep Rowen’s arm back, and the man tumbled to the ground again, legs flying out from beneath him with the impact. “I demand satisfaction,” Rowen growled.

  The man’s nose streamed blood. “A duel?” He coughed, spraying Rowen’s shirt with red.

  “Yes,” Rowen agreed. “A duel.”

  Kenneth wedged his way between the two, trying to catch Rowen’s eye—and force some small scrap of sense into him again. “Illegal, Rowen—duels were outlawed…”

  Rowen looked at him just long enough that Kenneth stepped back, clasping his hands behind him and rocking on his feet. “Jordan Astraea is innocent of witchery.”

  The other snorted. “I am Lord Edward and I will give you your duel,” he growled.

  “To first blood,” Rowen said.

  “Oh no,” Lord Edward stated. “Á l’outrance. To the death. I will put the ending date on your tombstone, you great ass.”

  Rowen snarled, “Commenting on how great my ass is will not make me spare you—I have heard it before from far prettier mouths. I will see you on the morrow at Watkin’s Glen. Be prepared, for I will be!”

  En Route to Holgate

  Jordan was sore from the bounce of constant travel along the roads unwinding like a tangle of yarn from Philadelphia’s careful grid work of streets. That night there was no tavern or inn and they rested as well as they could, curling atop each other in an awkward, shifting, and snoring mass of humanity. Rain clouds dampened the skies and a sad drizzle filled the air, soaking anyone too near the wagon’s edges. Clothing grew wet and stained with rust from the bars. A light came on in the carriage and the Tester appeared, snarling at the squish of mud beneath his boots.

  “Who is responsible for this?” he demanded. “Which one of you brought a storm without permission? Do you not understand the consequences of such things? Our country thrives due to a uniquely maintained balance. Crops have the correct amount of water and all have the proper ratio of sun.” He peered into the cage, watching the prisoners shift as the light stung their eyes. “There is a way we do things. A way we maintain a proper balance. Now. Speak up. Who is magicking this rain?”

  They were silent—cowed with fear.

  He dragged the lantern across the bars, making a rhythmic clanging as he paced the area, watching them. Silent, they watched him in turn with frightened eyes. “Fine,” he finally said. “The truth will out. I will know the culprit tomorrow and I will need no Test—nor further questions to find my answer. That is my magick,” he muttered as he disappeared once more into the carriage.

  Chapter Ten

  I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

  Of birdsong at morning and starshine at night.

  —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  Holgate

  “And here we are,” Maude whispered, taking Meg’s hand. She reached up and knocked on the Maker’s door. “Tonight, and from now on, you will sleep in your papá’s chambers and be the proper daughter of the Maker.”

  Meg looked up at her with wide and worshipful eyes.

  Maude pulled something out of the pocket hidden in her skirts and held it before Meg, shaking the soft body of a stuffed doll. Meg’s eyes shot rounder and she grabbed the doll with both hands before squeezing it to her chest. Holding it straight out before her, she examined it with a cocked head. “Who … what is it?” she asked, looking at its long flopping ears and obvious arms and legs.

  Maude bent down and gave it a little shake. “Well, what does it look like?”

  Shiny horn buttons made its eyes and nose glint big and black. Its mouth was stitched into a permanent smile. But stitching also designated fingers and toes—five on each hand and foot.

  “Like someone … and a bunny. Oh!” Meg gave a little hop. “Somebunny,” she dubbed it.

  “Excellent well,” Maude said, taking it back for a moment. “Here,” she instructed, “give its hand a wee squeeze.”

  Meg nodded and obeyed.

  There was a whirring noise and its legs shuffled, its arms rising and falling in a rhythm that mimicked walking. A voice forced through its frozen expression, fuzzily saying, “A place for all.”

  Meg stared at it, her tiny rosebud of a mouth hanging agape. “It is lovely!”

  “See, it has a clockwork within it,” Maude explained.

  “Where is the key to wind it?” Meg asked, turning the doll around.

  “There’s no key, silly bear,” Maude said with a giggle. “It’s powered by crystal.”

  “Stormpowered? Like the automatons that guard the Council?”

  “Well, not nearly so impressive as all that, but similar.”

  “It is wonderful.”

  “I got it for you through an amazing trader I know—”

  “And just how well do you know this amazing
trader?” Bran asked. The door stood open. Neither of the girls knew how long he’d stood there, watching and listening.

  “Well enough to warrant a fair price on goods.”

  “So he provides goods.” He gently picked up the toy to better view it. “And you—provide services?”

  “Ha!” She laughed before remembering herself and straightening. She smoothed her skirts and tugged at her hair. “No. I most certainly do not.”

  He nodded, watching her face the whole time. “It is a remarkable dolly.”

  Maude cleared her throat and led Meg around her father and to the side room just off his sleeping chamber. It was not much to speak of, but not much was still plenty if you came from nothing. Maude had placed a small bed in it and a trunk for clothing. “Not far to go from bed to clothes,” she said with a smile. “And it is a large space for a tiny sprite.”

  Meg climbed onto the bed, smiling, before her gaze returned to the doll Somebunny. “That’s my little lady.” Maude shuffled backward out of the doorway and looked at Bran. “Good Maker, sir, it is time for our evening ritual.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  “Dear little Miss Meggie is ready to slip into her evening clothes and be told a story.”

  “Oh. Then do go right ahead.” He motioned her toward the child.

  “No, sir. Well, not entirely no, but I am only going to change her and wash her face and hands and then the story is for you to tell.”

  “I…” Bran looked from the one to the other of them.

  Maude smiled. “Give us a few minutes?”

  Bran nodded, moving as quickly away as he could, busying himself straightening the odds and ends scattered throughout his room.

  In only a few minutes Maude called him back. Meg was seated on the edge of her bed in a linen chemise that served as a nightgown, her hair loose and glossy from being freshly brushed. Tiny hands were folded in her lap.

  “Good sir Maker, please seat yourself on the bed’s edge and regale your daughter with a delightful tale.”