The Whisper Witch

by Harvey, Alyxandra;

  “You could have died.” Frustrated, he jerked a hand through his hair.

  “Let’s take this conversation inside.” It was an order, not a suggestion, and the countess turned away with every expectation of being obeyed. She wasn’t disappointed.

  Barking greeted them from the other side of the door. When it opened, Gretchen was enveloped into a pack of enormous wolfhounds and mastiffs. Her familiar bounded out of her body in a streak of light and raced in mad, delighted circles. She slid Tobias a sidelong glance, wondering if she was breaking some sort of witching etiquette. Probably. Why change now?

  But Tobias’s mother only laughed.

  “Oh, I like this one, Tobias,” she said. “She has animal spirits.”

  Godric could understand why Moira preferred the rooftops.

  He was above the worst of the city—the disconcerting odors, the mud, and the dust of road construction. He was so high above, in point of fact, that his knees felt decidedly jelly-like.

  He might enjoy the view, but he didn’t care for the height. His body knew perfectly well what it would do should he fall from such a distance. Despite logic reminding him that there was a railing between him and gravity, a cold sweat tickled the back of his neck. His wolfhound-familiar flatly refused to step out of his body. He had only a few inches of whiskey left in his flask and he couldn’t even drink it. He was several stories up and he was sober.

  All for a girl.

  A mad, surly girl who would as soon chuck him over said railing as smile at him.

  He’d tried every romantic spell he’d come across, had risked his neck delivering red roses over the rooftops hoping she’d find them; he’d even walked the goblin markets three nights running hoping to see her. Instead he’d been bitten by a carnivorous cabbage, drank enough black ale to have him seeing spots, and lost his new pocket watch to a Rover built like a bloody bull. And here he was, once again on a rooftop, sacrificing the last of his whiskey to the gargoyle beside him so that it wouldn’t eat his face off.

  He felt a faint shift in the air behind him. Had he found her at last? He forced himself to turn slowly when all he wanted to do was whoop with joy. Gentlemen ought not to whoop. He was certain it was one of the many rules his mother enforced. His rules were extensive and bothersome; Gretchen’s rules were epic. The one time their mother had tried to write them all down, Gretchen had burned the resulting tome and nearly started a house fire.

  But here he was, far outside the realm of rules and responsibilities, alone with a girl he barely knew but already loved. “Moira,” he said. “Finally.”

  Only it wasn’t Moira standing behind him after all.

  It was a ghost.

  The gables shimmered through her. Godric sucked in a breath and it iced his throat.

  “Bollocks,” he muttered, a far cry from the poetry he’d memorized for Moira, even though she didn’t seem the type to like poetry. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do to prove your love? Make an ass of yourself? And how better than with a sonnet?

  He wanted to be anywhere but here with another ghost staring at him with hopeful, hungry eyes; but his training as a gentleman forbade him to do anything but bow a polite greeting, even to a dead girl.

  She smiled faintly, her long curls so pale he could barely see the ends where they turned to snow. There were dark smudges of bruises on her wrists and red welts on her collarbone. A small white mouse perched on her shoulder. He assumed it was her familiar before she even raised her left palm to show him her witch knot. She beckoned him forward. He groaned. “I’d really rather not.”

  She beckoned again, insistently.

  When he smiled apologetically and started to walk toward the attic door he’d snuck out of, she slammed into the air in front of him, sparks and ice flinging off her wispy form. The shingles frosted under her feet. Icicles stabbed off the railing like daggers.

  He pulled back sharply, but her fingers closed over his wrist, blistering him. His teeth chattered involuntarily as the cold slapped at him. She looked melancholy but undeterred. And then she floated away, hovering briefly in the space between the two buildings. Snow fell from the hem of her dress.

  He shook his head firmly. “I’m no Madcap to be running the rooftops. If you want me to follow, it will have to be on the ground.”

  He missed her flare of excitement as he ducked into the tavern to exit on street level, like a normal person. He passed girls selling bunches of watercress. The leaves froze briefly when the ghost found him again. Pedestrians shivered, wondering if they were falling ill. She flickered like a candle caught in her own unnaturally cold draft, in danger of guttering out.

  She turned down an alley between a haberdashery and a ribbon shop, leading him to a pile of broken crates and a snout-nosed gargoyle who blinked at her once. She floated up to the gables, staring down at him impatiently.

  “Splendid,” he said. “More climbing.”

  Tobias could never have imagined the incongruity of Gretchen in his London townhouse. He was surprised to discover he wished he had a moment to enjoy it.

  The Lawless mansion was elegant and fashionable, with silver sconces, silk wallpaper, and a curving staircase with a mahogany banister. He knew, without being told, that none of it would impress her. There was nothing in this part of the house to hint at the family character, except perhaps for his brother stalking through the front hall, rattling the crystal drops of the chandeliers and bristling with challenge. If he betrayed much more aggression, their mother would give him a set down he’d not soon forget, stranger in the house or not. It didn’t do to challenge the Alpha of any pack, never mind Elise Lawless. Tobias might be a young gentleman of considerable social power in London society, but behind these doors he was one of four children, and subject to pack law.

  “Mother,” he said, hoping to distract everyone from Ky’s temper. “May I present Lady Gretchen Thorn.”

  Gretchen bobbed a quick curtsy. The dogs pressed around her, eager to catalogue her scent. “How do you do?”

  “Welcome,” Elise said. “The wolf is on her,” she added to Tobias.

  “Yes, that’s why I had to bring her here,” he explained. “I couldn’t leave her to the Catchers.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “The Carnyx needs to answer this insult,” Ky seethed.

  “Ky, hush,” their mother said. “I’ll decide what needs answering, if you please.”

  There were soft footsteps on the stairs as Posy rushed down, her nose tucked into a book as always. She didn’t notice their guest until she was on the last step. She started, looking trapped, before cringing. “It’s all right, Posy.” Tobias smiled at her encouragingly.

  Their mother watched Gretchen carefully for a long silent moment, nostrils twitching before she said, “Don’t be shy, Posy. This is Gretchen.”

  Tobias and Ky exchanged a glance. Whatever their mother had sensed on Gretchen, it was enough to trust her, and Elise trusted no one easily. She half turned to Gretchen. “You don’t mind me calling you Gretchen, do you? Lady this and Most Honorable that, it gets rather tiresome and takes up too much time, don’t you think?”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  Posy pushed timidly away from the banister. “Are you not shocked?” she asked as her tail became obvious. She’d had to alter some of her dresses for comfort, her tail flicking against the sprigged lemon-yellow muslin.

  “My cousin has antlers,” Gretchen replied with a cheerful shrug.

  Tobias knew in that moment that he could never go back to seeing her as a dangerous rebel who flouted the Order. Well, a rebel and flouter of rules, yes, but not dangerous. Certainly not vindictive.

  “Tobias, why don’t you show Gretchen up to the family parlor and then clean yourself up so we can discuss last night’s events.”

  “Can you send word to my mother and Rowanstone that I am at Aunt Bethany’s overnight? And to my cousins with the truth, as well, please?” Gretchen asked. “They’ll be able to ci
rcumnavigate everyone so no one sends out the guards to find me.”

  “Of course.”

  Tobias motioned to the staircase with a sweeping gesture. “After you.”

  Gretchen climbed the steps, no doubt wondering why they weren’t entertaining her in the formal drawing room on the ground floor, as expected. He showed her to the parlor, with its dark green walls and scattered rugs. There were sturdy chairs, bowls of pine needles Posy collected as potpourri, and books scattered on every table. He knew how it must look with fur on the cushions and gathering under the furniture, all of the windows open, and the bits of greenery that Posy insisted on bringing inside.

  “I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he trailed off, suddenly awkward. Any gently bred debutante would have been horrified.

  As usual, she defied expectations.

  She looked up at him with a grin. “It’s perfect.” She beamed.

  At least the ghost had the good sense to bring him to a ladder, even if it was rather rickety. Snow drifted over his head as he climbed, teeth gritted against the instinctive need to look down. The ghost hovered impatiently until the rungs of the ladder iced and cracked. Frost burned his fingertips. He hauled himself over the edge, rolling onto the shingles.

  He sat up, scowling. “All right,” he muttered at the agitated girl.

  She took him across two more roofs, around a gargoyle with eerie painted eyes, and finally to a small rectangle of shingles and chimney pots.

  And Moira.

  He’d know that long black hair and her cameo-studded striped waistcoat anywhere. She rose slowly to her feet, dagger in her hand. Her orange tabby cat-familiar hissed. He held out his palms to show he was unarmed. When she finally recognized him, she sighed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was led here,” he replied.

  “If you say you were led here by love, I will stab you.”

  He chuckled despite himself. “No, not quite by love. By a ghost.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Sorry?”

  He admired her, even as she eyed him suspiciously, balancing on the balls of her feet as though she were ready to fly. He knew she could outrun him without even trying. “You’re so beautiful,” he blurted out.

  “You’re sotted,” she returned blandly.

  “I’m not drunk,” he said, even as the ghost circled her.

  “Well, you’re not right in the head,” she muttered. “Get back to the bit about the ghost.”

  “She has long blond hair and a little mouse on her shoulder.”

  Moira’s mouth open and closed but no words came out. She was pale as milk suddenly. The dagger trembled in her fingers. He took a step toward her. “Are you all right?”

  She swallowed and it looked painful. “I knew a girl like that,” she finally said, her voice raspy. “She was killed by the Sisters. Her name was Strawberry. She was the one the Rovers tried to snatch that night under the bridge.”

  The ghost nodded at him with so much excitement the shingles under her feet iced and cracked into pieces. Moira shivered under the blast of cold. “Is she here right now?”

  “Yes,” Godric replied. “Take my hand.” He stripped off his glove and held it out. “If you touch me, you can see her for yourself.”

  He could see her fighting some kind of inner battle. She probably didn’t believe him. He didn’t exactly blame her. She finally took a step closer and slipped her fingers into his. “If this is a trick …” She let the threat trail off in favor of gesticulating with the very sharp, pointed knife still in her other hand.

  “It’s not a trick,” he said softly. “Look.”

  She turned away from him as an icy breath blew on the back of her neck. Her hair lifted in a cold breeze and then the ghost was standing right in front her. Her cat-familiar pawed at her snowy hem. “Strawberry?” Moira stepped forward, dropping his hand. She stopped, glancing wildly all around her. “What happened?”

  “You have to hold my hand,” Godric reminded her, slipping his palm over hers. “To see what I see.”

  Moira released a long, shaky breath when Strawberry fluttered into view once more. She tucked her dagger into her belt and reached out to her friend. Her hand went right though her. Strawberry’s lip trembled in response. “You shouldn’t be here.” Moira used her shoulder to impatiently wipe a tear off her cheek.

  “Maybe she just misses you,” Godric suggested.

  “You don’t understand. We burned her bones,” Moira explained. “We gave her a proper Madcap boat burial. She should be in the Blessed Isles. The fact that she’s here can mean only one thing. Something’s gone wrong.”

  Strawberry nodded. Moira frowned at Godric. “Why can’t she speak?”

  “None of the ghosts speak,” Godric said apologetically, even though it was hardly his fault. “Only spirits can speak, apparently. My professor told me that in the old stories the dead cannot speak so that they cannot tell the living what’s on the other side. But mostly I think ghosts just don’t have enough power. They use it all up trying to stay visible.”

  There was the crack of stone and a leathery hiss as the gargoyle behind them was awakened by Strawberry’s presence. Moira didn’t even glance back at it, just snapped her fingers at Godric. “Give him your whiskey.”

  He didn’t bother denying he had any, just struggled to open his flask one-handed. He tossed an arc of amber liquid at the gargoyle. “Stand down, Tristan,” Moira snapped.

  The gargoyle settled back on his perch with a grumble. Strawberry’s outline sharpened brightly before turning misty. She pointed at her bruises and the welt on her collarbone. Her mouse flared red.

  “Is this about Sophie?” Moira asked, pouncing like her cat-familiar. “I know she killed you for the Sisters. But she’s escaped.” Her mouth hardened. “Do you want me to kill her instead?”

  Strawberry shook her head, looking gently reproachful. She pointed at herself.

  “You want to kill her yourself?”

  Now, the pale ghost-girl just looked disgusted. Moira laughed through the tears Godric wasn’t sure she knew were streaming down her face. “You know I’ve always been harder than you,” she said.

  Strawberry rolled her eyes before her expression turned serious again. She pointed to herself again.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” Moira said quietly.

  Snow hurtled into her face, dusting her eyelashes.

  She blinked it away. “You didn’t have a temper like this when you were alive.”

  Strawberry opened her palm, and on her witch knot, hawthorn flowers formed from the misty ectoplasm. The misty phosphorescence turned to icy blue flames, until she was made of fire. Snow and ice formed a boat from the hem of her dress. Godric had been slowly growing used to deciphering the way ghosts spoke, which was mostly through images or cryptic metaphors. He might not know about the flowers, but the fiery boat meant something. “Is this about your funeral?”

  Strawberry nodded. Her flames faded back to glowing mists.

  “And the Rovers,” Moira guessed. “The ones who wanted your bones.”

  She nodded frantically, frost blooming all around her and creeping up to touch Moira’s boots. It clung to her like lace. “They have something to do with the Sisters? With you?”

  Strawberry faded away, still nodding.

  “Where did she go?” Moira squeezed Godric’s hand desperately.”I’m still touching you! Where is she?”

  “She’s gone,” he replied.

  “Bring her back!”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. She’s not strong enough.” Moira let go of his hand and turned away furiously. “She might come back on her own though,” he said. “Eventually.”

  “Not before I find those Rovers,” she promised darkly.

  Godric knew that kind of rage intimately. One didn’t grow up with a twin like Gretchen and not understand the drive to fight against the world before it fought against you. He took his own Ironstone-issued knife out of his boot and sawed a lock of hair f
rom his head. “Here,” he said, moving to her side and offering it to her. “This way you have a part of me to see her with if she comes back. It’s worth a try.”

  She took it carefully, frowning. “You could have made me depend on you instead,” she pointed out. “You have all the power as a bone-singer.”

  “I could,” he agreed. “But that’s not love. And I love you.”

  She pointed at him with the dagger. “Stop that.”

  “I mean it,” he insisted.

  Her shoulders hunched. “Godric, I don’t want to hurt you, but …”

  He shook his head, smiling sadly. “You don’t feel the same way.” He stared off over the rooftops of London instead of at her impish, clever face. “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.”

  Moira paused. “Um. What?”

  “Sorry, Shakespeare. Penelope’s hard to tune out.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I can wait for you, Moira.”

  “Godric—”

  “Let me wait for you,” he cut her off. “Just for a little while.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you.” She sounded endearingly confused.

  He smiled. “Nor I, you.”

  “I am sorry, you know,” she said gently. “Truly.”

  He heard her walk away, running lightly over the shingles and over to another rooftop, but he didn’t watch her go. Maybe she’d change her mind. Maybe she wouldn’t. That part was none of his business in the end. There were worse things than unrequited love.

  “What are you doing?”

  Penelope knew it was Cedric, even before he’d spoken. She was in the back corner of the conservatory, where her mother had set up a cluster of settees on brightly colored rugs, surrounded by orange trees, pineapples, jasmine, and orchids. Moments earlier a dozen sparrows had landed on the glass roof, pecking at her through the glass, and three cats pressed against the windows in anticipation.

  “Mugwort is meant to stimulate the magical senses,” she informed him. Her voice was muffled, her face pressed entirely into the plant. It made her want to sneeze so it must be working.